


Listen Without Prejudice

by Experimental



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Christophe's Birthday, Curling, Drunken Kissing, Heavy Drinking, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Penetrative Sex, One-Sided Attraction, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, PyeongChang 2018 Winter Olympics, Slow blinks, The Music of George Michael, The Non-Victuuri Bang, Yuri!!! On Stage References, figure skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-26 13:04:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18282887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Experimental/pseuds/Experimental
Summary: Seung-Gil is having an amazing season, but a terrible Olympics. After a humiliating free skate, he plans to return home and start preparing for Worlds. But Christophe is sure Seung-Gil will regret it if he doesn't stay for the exhibition gala.Overnight, Christophe's encouragement becomes an invitation. And it seems each might be just the permission the other didn't know he needed. For Christophe, to put the Sochi Games and everything that's changed since then behind him. For Seung-Gil, to skate before the whole world the way he really feels inside.All they have to do now is take these lies and make them true somehow.





	1. 12 February

**Author's Note:**

> As you might be able to guess from the title, this story owes its existence to George Michael's seminal 1990 album, [_Listen Without Prejudice Vol. 1_](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=OLAK5uy_ks78c88uwzLMQS9HFzxdrPSn2e8j-UCuA). If you've never heard it before, it's worth a listen or ten through. It might even just change your life. Links to some of the tracks, as well as to other music referenced, are provided throughout. _Quoted lyrics_ belong to their respective creators.
> 
> The following takes place in Pyeongchang in February 2018, so any resemblance to actual persons, places or events is purely intentional. The things alluded to are a matter of public record and this author receives no financial benefit from mentioning them. The figure skating schedule of events has been altered to fit the plot.
> 
> The _Yuri!!! On Stage_ Chihoko drama is considered canon for this story's purposes.

“Let me take you out to dinner.”

Technically it's an invitation, but only just. The way Christophe inserts himself into Seung-Gil's field of vision, he makes it clear he isn't intending to take “no” for an answer.

But that's the answer Seung-Gil gives him. Quick and flat: “Pass.”

A little pout. “Why not?”

 _Because I said so._ Because it's what's comfortable. An automated response. The same one everyone gets. What makes Christophe Giacometti so special he deserves a better explanation than everyone else?

But the why won't come, so Seung-Gil just sighs and pushes past him, and prays that Christophe will find the compassion deep within him to let it go. Before the tears Seung-Gil was quick to wipe away start to replenish themselves.

No such luck.

“Hey.” Christophe touches his arm. “Come on. I'm buying. Anything you want.” How can Seung-Gil possibly turn him down? Like he should be so lucky that Christophe even acknowledged he exists.

“Why are you asking me and not Victor or Yuuri or literally anyone else? You never talk to me.”

“Maybe I figured it's time for a change.”

Seung-Gil rolls his eyes.

“Alright,” Christophe tries again, “my motives are entirely selfish. I was looking forward to enjoying some authentic Korean food while I'm here, but, alas, I don't read a lick of Korean.”

“Ah. Okay. So you thought I could translate for you, since I'm the only Korean you know.” At least that's a reason Seung-Gil can actually believe.

The guilty look on Christophe's face, not as much. “What do you say? Feel like playing tour guide for the evening? I leave the establishment, the order, everything, entirely to you. All you have to do is talk to me. Let's get to know one another like we should have years ago.”

“Maybe I don't feel like talking right now.”

“Still, I think you should. You'll feel better after. Believe me, it's better than moping around here by yourself all night, beating yourself up over what you can't change.”

His words hit Seung-Gil like an arrow to its mark, and he looks up before he can stop himself, straight into Christophe's eyes. Only realizing once he's done it that he's given himself away.

No. Seung-Gil's red, puffy eyes must have already done that for him, or the dark spots on the wrists of his jacket sleeves.

But. “I don't need your false sympathy.”

“Who said it was false? You don't think I know what it feels like? To fuck up royally when it really counts?”

Who, Christophe? The guy who's always bragging he can skate exactly how he wants—who deliberately under-performs in his short programs just for the pleasure of a come-from-behind victory in the free? No, Seung-Gil isn't sure Christophe is entirely capable of understanding how he's feeling at the moment.

The promise of a free meal, on the other hand . . .

“You're not going to let me go until I say yes, are you?”

* * *

At the restaurant, Seung-Gil orders prime rib, pork belly, and beers for both of them. If Christophe is paying, he may as well get his money's worth.

Christophe watches the exchange in Korean in patient silence, waits until the end of it to say in English, “I want that thing (what's it called again?),” and he's miming for good measure, “with all the vegetables and rice and egg in one bowl . . .”

“Bibimbap?” the waitress asks.

And Christophe turns on his most charming smile as he looks into her eyes. “Yes, that's it. One of those, please.”

It seems to Seung-Gil that Christophe didn't really need him here after all, if he already knew what he wanted, but Seung-Gil isn't about to complain about free meat.

They talk about trivial, impersonal things until their server comes back: the facilities, the frigid weather, those phallic Bullet Men statues that are blowing up the Internet. Everything about the free skate but their own performances.

Then the beers arrive with the banchan, and Christophe raises a toast. “To our parts being done and the pressure off. Now we can just sit back, enjoy ourselves, and eat things that are bad for us. Until the exhibition, anyway.”

“I hope you have fun,” Seung-Gil says after they drink. “I'm not sticking around.”

“You're kidding, right?” By Christophe's tone, his almost double-take of a blink, one would think Seung-Gil just said something blasphemous, like “Victor Nikiforov is overrated”.

But why should Seung-Gil's decision come as any surprise? “Not after humiliating myself like that.”

“So you had one bad free skate. Happens to all of us at some time or another.”

“I went from fourth after the short to eleventh. 'One bad skate' is an understatement.”

“Alright, I _did_ expect you to pass me in the free.” Says the man who ended up in that fourth-place slot when all was said and done. Christophe shrugs. “On paper, you had the base points to medal, easily. It just wasn't your day. That's what makes these Games so exciting—you never know what's going to happen or who's going to shake out on top. Just because it wasn't you doesn't mean you should turn tail and run.”

“That's easy for you to say,” Seung-Gil tells him. “You surpassed expectations. But I can't exactly go back and do a better job, now, can I? I had this one chance, and I blew it and let everyone who got me here down. So as far as I'm concerned, there's no reason for me to stick around. Not when I could be home tomorrow and preparing for Worlds.”

Even if it won't be _in_ Korea, Seung-Gil can still win a medal for Korea there. But only if he puts in the effort. “Or else I might finish in twenty-third, at the rate I'm going.”

Christophe must know there's nothing in what Seung-Gil said that he can put up a decent argument against, so he says nothing. Just sits there staring at Seung-Gil like he's waiting for the right words to come to him.

Thankfully, the food arrives before they can. A wink and a husky “ _Merci vilmal_ ” sends their waitress off with a blush this time.

When Christophe starts poking tentatively at his bibimbap with his chopsticks, Seung-Gil feels like he has to say something. “Use your spoon.”

“Hm?”

“You eat it with your spoon. That's why they gave you one.” Christophe isn't the first _waegukin_ Seung-Gil's met who seems to think it's off-limits.

He tries not to seem like he's paying too much attention, but the more he watches Christophe over the grill he's seasoning, the less Seung-Gil can resist butting in. “You shouldn't scrape the bottom of the bowl as you're mixing, either. Save that for last and you should wind up with a nice toasted rice cracker.”

“Ah. Sort of a rice _religieuse_.”

Now it's Seung-Gil's turn for “What?” That last part didn't sound like English.

“ _Religieuse_? It's the crispy layer of cheese left at the bottom of a fondue pot. If you do it well,” Christophe says.

“What do you mean, _if_ you do it well? Is there a learning curve to fondue or something?”

“I would say come over to the House of Switzerland sometime and find out. That is,” Christophe gives Seung-Gil a meaningful look, “if you were sticking around.”

Right. There is that, Seung-Gil reminds himself, looking away. For a second, though, he had started to look forward to it.

“Just supposing for a minute you were going to stay,” Christophe says, “what would you have done for the exhibition? Reprise your 'Arirang' program?”

Seung-Gil's almost ashamed to say it with his disastrous free skate not so far behind him. “Actually I was thinking 'Freedom! '90'.”

“George Michael?” Christophe lights up, but he sounds skeptical. “I mean, I applaud your taste, obviously, but what inspired you to choose that?”

And Seung-Gil wonders if Christophe can see the heat rushing to his cheeks. He wonders if he could blame it on the steam rising from the onions on the grill. “You. Your solo skate at Victor's ice show last summer, to be precise.”

Christophe nods. “['Cowboys and Angels'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ve-rxwKuqtI&index=5&list=OLAK5uy_ks78c88uwzLMQS9HFzxdrPSn2e8j-UCuA). I didn't realize it was that memorable.”

Yes, he did. That was the point.

Seung-Gil can still see it in his mind—the way Christophe's shoulders sparkled under the spotlight, his eyes shadowed by the Stetson hat he skated the first half with, like a mask to hide the pain. Seung-Gil can still hear that melancholic waltz: _Cowboys and angels/ They all have the time for you/ Why should I imagine that I'd be a find for you. . . ._ Every time he comes to that part of the song, he remembers the shitkicking swagger that went with it. Even if he isn't the one who was meant to remember it.

Time and distance seem to have removed Christophe from the emotion of that skate. But not Seung-Gil. “I listened to the album on repeat the whole flight home,” he confesses, “and when I heard 'Freedom!' I knew I wanted to skate to it. I just didn't know when.”

“No better time and stage to do it justice than the Olympics.”

“That's what I thought, too. But. . . .” Seung-Gil shakes his head. Concentrates on getting a nice sear on his meat so he won't have to feel the words. “I couldn't do it now. Not after my performance today. That song deserves better than what I could bring to it.”

“I don't buy that.”

Seung-Gil looks up to Christophe wagging his spoon at him. “If that's your excuse for sitting out the gala, try again.”

“Why would they even want me in the exhibition?”

“Of course they'll want you in it.”

“But after my finish—”

“Who cares about that! You're the native son. And people love watching you skate.”

Does Christophe include himself in that “people”? The way he puts down his utensils and leans closer to Seung-Gil, he must. Seung-Gil can't remember ever seeing Christophe so serious.

“Think about it, SG. How often do the Games come to your home country—let alone when you're young and fit enough to compete in them?”

Apparently that's a rhetorical question, because when Seung-Gil opens his mouth to respond, Christophe answers anyway: “You're never going to get a chance like this again. Hell, you're lucky you get this chance at all. I'm afraid if you don't take it, you'll regret it. You might not feel that way now, but someday, when all this is far behind you, you'll wish you'd ridden this Olympic train to the end of the tracks.”

“Did you just call me 'SG'?” They've barely said ten words to each other outside the rink before tonight, and Christophe is already giving him a nickname?

Christophe chuckles. “ _That's_ your takeaway from what I just said? How do I get this through to you. . . .”

But he's already gotten it through just fine. It's just that Seung-Gil doesn't know what to say. Just when he thinks he's made it through the worst of the pressure of an Olympic season, Christophe sends him on this guilt trip. Seung-Gil knows his coach would only agree, too. He's already let his fans and his country down once. Does he really want to disappoint them again by hiding himself away?

But that's just the problem. What if they don't like what he has to give them? What if it's not enough to make up for his failure today? What if he puts his heart and soul into “Freedom!” and he just comes across like a sad pretender? He's not sure his ego could survive that blow.

Suddenly the aroma and sizzling of the beef is too much for Seung-Gil's empty stomach.

“I promise I'll think about it,” he says. He picks out the smallest leaf of lettuce on the platter and folds his slice of meat into it, even if it's not as done as he usually likes it. “But that's all I'll promise.”

Christophe leans back again, hands raised in surrender. “That's a start. But, hey. Even if you decide not to participate,” he adds with a wink, “at least come watch me skate. _Non_?”

“We'll see,” Seung-Gil says and takes a bite.

Then, just when he thought his tears were done for the day, he feels like crying all over again. The prime rib is juicy and beefy and beautiful, exactly what his body and spirit need after all the tension and emotional ups and downs of the free skate. It's like getting a hug from his grandmother, or a nuzzle from his dog—both of which he would give anything to have right now.

Seung-Gil clenches his fist on the tabletop as the flavors melt on his tongue, squeezing his eyes shut, just trying to hold on to that feeling for as long as possible.

Unaware that Christophe is watching him with mild concern. “That good, huh?”

“Have some,” Seung-Gil tells him after he's swallowed. “I ordered it for both of us, before you decided to get bibimbap. And someone has to eat the vegetables.”

“What's wrong with vegetables?” Christophe says. “They're good for you.” But he, too, reaches eagerly for the prime rib.

* * *

Seung-Gil can't sleep. Every time he closes his eyes, he gets pulled back to his free skate.

To that opening quad loop. The one he flubbed.

 _His_ jump. The quad that _he_ pioneered. Now Emil's doing it. Yuri's doing it. JJ has it in both his programs this year. Seung-Gil's happy for them—it makes things more interesting when he's not the only one who can land it in competition—and proud that he could be the one who opened that door.

All the more reason he can't let his mistake go.

Just like he couldn't let it go then.

Confidence shaken, he pops his next jump. One downgrade in difficulty he can live with, but two is disastrous. _How do I claw my way back up from this?_

_I know. I could put the loop back in in the second half, do it instead of the quad Sal. The ten-percent bonus might help close the gap a little. Change the first triple toe in the last combination to a flip. . . ._

New battle plan in his head, he's able to pull it back together. The next few jump passes and combination spin are solid. Positive GOEs the whole way, unless the judges are blind.

“Obsession” is the theme he chose for the season. For the last four years, everything Seung-Gil did was building to the moment of his free skate on the world stage, in his home nation, in Pyeongchang. His coach and Korea's media outlets, everyone he knows and passing strangers reminded him of that every opportunity they got. Expectations couldn't be higher. And he knew he was finally at a level physically, mentally, artistically not just to meet them, but to exceed them.

Seung-Gil proved that in the Grand Prix, taking silver in both his events and making it to the Final with points to spare. He proved it with an easy gold in Nationals. And at Four Continents, where he won not just a bronze medal but a standing ovation.

And after the short program a few days ago, he found himself a mere few tenths of a point away from medal contention.

Until that downgraded loop.

Like a ghost he just can't shake, as soon as it enters his mind, the doubt comes back again. His final jump pass—incomplete. Down on a fall on the flip. _Minus three on the grade of execution, mandatory one-point deduction, no second jump—_

_Damn it, get up! You can still save this._

But Seung-Gil can feel his name slipping down the rankings as he bleeds points onto the ice. Tears burn his eyes as he goes into one last, impassioned choreo sequence, and he trips on a step that should be nothing.

Down goes the hand. He sees it coming, pounds the ice in frustration and grits his teeth so hard they ache, and the whole thing falls right in time with the “ _C’est ça![je suis malade](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IX1aHQd3WWA)!” _in his program music, so maybe the audience will think he _meant_ to do it.

But the judges know better.

And while he's thinking about that, he misses the end of his song and finishes his spin a full three seconds behind it. Not enough to earn him another deduction, but not the last impression he wants to leave on the ice either.

The next few minutes are the longest Seung-Gil can remember. He spends them staring into the face of the Soohorang doll someone handed to him on his way to the kiss and cry because he can't bear to look up at the stands. But it feels like that plush tiger's little black eyes judge him enough for a whole country anyway.

He wishes he could say he doesn't remember his score, but the numbers are there like an afterimage when he closes his eyes. His lowest all season. He hates them.

He hates himself for earning them.

So he won't close his eyes. He shoots out of bed, pulls on some sweat pants and a zip-up, thinking a walk around the dorms might be just what he needs to clear his head.

It's 0300. There's no one up. Even the athletes who come to these games to enjoy the party atmosphere have already stumbled back into their or someone else's bed. Seung-Gil wonders if he would wake them if he just jogged up and down the halls for a bit. Probably. And he doesn't want to get into it with anyone at this hour.

He ends up on the couch in the commons area, scrolling through social media on his phone and missing the weight of his dog on his lap. Someone who won't judge him except to love him, no matter what he does.

Social was a bad idea. His feed is full of news of his free skate, his disappointing finish. Close-ups of his face during that last minute of his program, when he was afraid he was going to lose it right there on the ice. Has he always been such an ugly crier? Fans wonder if he's OK. But weren't they listening to his music?

_I am sick._

_Perfectly sick._

Seung-Gil knows he shouldn't. But he can't read about himself any more and it's the only thing he can think of that will take his mind off his performance.

He pulls up Nishigori Takeshi's page, reads through the posts. Some he missed during the free skate today, some he's already read a dozen times over.

Lots of pictures of “ma boi” Yuuri and his new medal, but Seung-Gil wouldn't expect anything less. For a second he's heartbroken that there's not a single mention of him. Never mind, why would there be? But that means there's nothing about Seung-Gil's failure, either. Better for Takeshi to not think of him at all than to think of him as a failure.

The last post for the night is a photo of the Nishigori triplets in Team Japan gear, posing with their selfie sticks and the hotel room coffee pot like they're set to play a round of . . . something. Normally Seung-Gil would skip over the triplet posts, but he's desperate for new material. He hits “translate this”.

“Pumped for curling tomorrow with the fam! Japan versus South Korea”.

So it was nothing after all.

Seung-Gil sighs, leans back against the sofa. The highs of reading Takeshi's posts seem to get shorter and shorter, and when it comes, that lost, aimless feeling he gets when there's nothing more to see hits him like a truck. A shower might do the trick. A hot shower and then bed almost never fails to knock him out.

But it isn't long before that song catches up with him again under the spray— _Comme à un rocher/ Comme à un péché/ Je suis accroché à toi—_ threatening to drag him down with it, and the only thing Seung-Gil can think of to banish it is a good jerk session. There's no one around; it might be the best chance he gets until he's back home.

He's slow to get off the ground tonight, but he does what he always does when he needs inspiration: thinks of that kiss last summer. Of Takeshi's lips under his that taste of beer and sake, his jaw beneath Seung-Gil's thumbs, hard and jutting and masculine. Takeshi's strong hands digging into his arms, unsure whether to push Seung-Gil away or keep him from escaping.

In Seung-Gil's mind, there's no separating the two. He imagines that night at Yu-topia Katsuki ending differently, with Takeshi sneaking into his futon to say he can't stop thinking about that kiss either, that he can't stop thinking about Seung-Gil. That he's conflicted by this desire—desire he's never felt for another man—and it won't let him sleep.

It's OK, Seung-Gil assures him, Yuuko will never know, even while Takeshi tugs down Seung-Gil's pants, kneads his thighs, his ass, buries his face in Seung-Gil's bare skin. Like a man who's forgotten the taste of red meat until someone offers him a bite.

Seung-Gil closes his eyes and leans against the wall as he strokes himself, imagining it's Takeshi's thick fingers around his dick. That never fails to get him fully hard. Those thick fingers, tugging and squeezing him nice and thorough and slow while Takeshi presses hot, breathy kisses to every inch of Seung-Gil he can reach. _Yes,_ Seung-Gil thinks when that song invades again, _I_ _am  _ _sick. Compl_ _è_ _tement malade._ Dreaming of a married man he knows he will never have at three in the morning.

Except somehow Christophe manages to butt in on even that. And the harder Seung-Gil tries to hold on to Takeshi's image, the more insistent Christophe's becomes.

Christophe on his knees, in his “Cowboys and Angels” costume that's all rhinestone roses and black sheer above the belt. Christophe with his lashes and that might-be-condescending smile that only goes away when he leans in and swallows Seung-Gil whole.

Seung-Gil ups his pace, the excitement of something new curling behind his navel. But Christophe's just a pinch hitter, just something to get him through tonight. Nothing more.

So Seung-Gil tells himself, and the Takeshi who exists only in his dreams, when he comes thinking about Christophe's mouth; he'll be faithful again next time. He can't be the only one among their colleagues who's used Christophe this way. The way that man acts, Seung-Gil wouldn't be surprised if Christophe found the fantasies flattering. 

When Seung-Gil returns to his bed, warm and damp and empty, he's asleep within minutes.

In the morning, he calls his coach and tells her he's going to stay for the gala.


	2. 13 February

Christophe sometimes wonders if it shows on his face: that he never tires of watching himself skate.

He's been up since 0430, running on naught but coffee, morning show after morning show wanting his hot take on his free skate and just missing the podium, being Switzerland's sweetheart, his revealing costume. . . .

“Is it really that revealing?” he asks one reporter. (Yes, there's a decent-sized oculus showing off his lower back, forming the base of the ♅ that contours the lines of his spine and shoulder blades, and the front peeks open to mid-torso, but he's certain he's gotten away with more flesh in previous years.) “I'd do me,” he says to another, who laughs, thinking Christophe's being facetious.

The inevitable jokes arise about his choice of music—“['Uranus, the Magician'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6KnQUMWrROM)? For a skater with such notable assets” ( _har-har_ ) “that's a bit on-the-nose, don't you think?”—and Christophe smiles patiently each time. Because of everything about his free skate this year, his choice of music is perhaps the most serious. “Uranus is the planet that rules Aquarius,” he tells one silver fox anchor. Never mind that he doesn't believe in astrology. “That's my sign, by the way. What's yours?”

Christophe watches himself on their screens and for a little while allows himself to be seduced by the character. To be drawn in and distracted by each flick of the magician's hands, each slow-motion smirk—charmed by that beautiful snake in bottle green and every jump he slays—swept along breathless into that mad final spin, so that at the end of it he's left just as wowed and sated by the performance as his audience.

He lets the TV personalities do most of the talking, and not just because it's far too early in the morning to keep his languages straight. Everyone has something they desperately want to say about his performance—the women especially—and Christophe doesn't want to stem the tide of compliments. Better to just finish each interview with a witty soundbite and some smooth pleasantries that leave his hosts shifting in their seats.

Then on to the next one. Another chance for the world to watch him watch his own skate. What do they expect him to say? Perfection speaks for itself.

When he's finally reached the end of the interviews, Christophe has just enough time to sit down with a pastry and coffee and check his notifications before Seung-Gil's name pops up on his phone.

“Do you like curling?"

“Good morning to you too” Christophe texts back.

“Do you like curling or not?”

 _I'll bite. What are you up to, SG?_ “Sure. Who doesn't?”

“Want to see a game with me? South Korea plays Japan at 11.”

“Men, women, or mixed doubles?”

The simple question seems to throw Seung-Gil off, judging by how long it takes him to respond. But it's kind of unusual that he's issuing an invitation rather than the other way around, so Christophe takes it back before Seung-Gil can have second thoughts. “Nevermind.

“I'd love to.

“I've been meaning to go to more events. Besides skating.”

Seung-Gil's clearly eager to get going. He sends a precise time and location at which to meet, even what entrance he's going to be at. Like he really doesn't want to be missed.

But Christophe isn't going anywhere until he finishes his pastry. It's the first time in weeks he's treated himself to this much refined sugar in one sitting.

“See you there,” he sends off and puts the phone down, daring it to chime again.

* * *

Another bitterly cold day, and a night of poor sleep doesn't help with retaining body heat. Seung-Gil stamps his feet as he waits outside the venue, more certain with each passing moment that Christophe isn't going to show.

But he does, on the very minute that Seung-Gil suggested they meet.

“I take it this means you changed your mind about the gala,” are the first words out of Christophe's mouth.

“Not entirely. I decided I'm going to stay—”

“Glad to hear it.”

“—but not whether I want to skate in it,” Seung-Gil finishes, with a glare for the interruption. “I'm still not sure I'm feeling up to that.”

“Well, there's time enough to be sure.” Christophe blows out a breath, shivering down into his red puffer jacket that seems too short for this climate. “Shall we go in and get seats, while we can still feel our extremities?”

Seung-Gil's glad for the company, even if he's only half-listening to Christophe tell him about his morning. Christophe seems more than happy to take on the burden of conversation, needing only the occasional “uh-huh” and “tell me about it” from Seung-Gil to keep him going.

Seung-Gil follows close behind as they make their way into the stands, scanning the crowd as they go for any sign of the Nishigori family. The triplets tend to stand out, so he figures if he can catch a glimpse of them, Takeshi can't be far away.

 _Then what?_ Seung-Gil's plans seem to fall apart after that. But if he can just confirm that Takeshi is here, who knows what could happen next.

“Were you expecting to meet up with someone else?”

Christophe's voice, deep and sultry no matter he's actually saying, and his sudden breath on Seung-Gil's neck make Seung-Gil jump in his seat. “Why would you say that?” Why _wouldn't_  he say that? Clearly Seung-Gil isn't being as subtle in scoping out the stands as he thought he was.

But Seung-Gil wouldn't have the courage to look so openly without Christophe or someone else sitting beside him. Someone to be his excuse for being here. For agreeing to come and be that excuse, Seung-Gil figures he owes Christophe. The very least he can do is pay a little better attention.

“Sorry,” Seung-Gil says before Christophe can answer. “I thought I saw someone I knew, but it was probably just a case of mistaken identity.”

“Anyone who would be jealous to see you with me?”

“Umm. . . .” Why can't witty ripostes come as easily to him as they seem to to Christophe? Seung-Gil can feel Christophe watching him out of the corner of his eye, and it's like Christophe can see straight through him. To the real reason Seung-Gil wanted to come here.

Can Christophe tell just by looking what Seung-Gil was thinking about him last night, too? Surely mind-reading is impossible. But it feels like the more Seung-Gil tries not to come off nervous under Christophe's gaze, the more transparent to it he becomes.

Maybe it was a mistake to invite Christophe after all. Maybe Takeshi _is_ out there, watching the two of them right now, noting how comfortably Christophe is leaning into Seung-Gil and getting entirely the wrong idea.

“Relax,” Christophe chuckles. “It was a rhetorical question. It's not like you asked me here on a date.”

“I know that.”

“Although, if there _is_ someone you want to make jealous, I wouldn't be opposed to playing along. Just putting it out there.”

Seung-Gil feels the blood rush to his cheeks and isn't sure if Christophe is joking. Even after years of catching Christophe's rink-side innuendo, aimed at just about anyone but him, Seung-Gil still doesn't know whether to take it at face value.

Thankfully that's when the audience erupts in a mix of cheers and disappointed  _aww_ 's, and Seung-Gil has a chance to change the subject.

In one of the lanes below them, either the Korean or the Japanese ladies have just scored. He counts three red stones and one yellow inside the target circle, but when the scoreboard changes, it says Korea has scored two, Japan zero.

“Shouldn't that be three-one?” Seung-Gil wonders aloud.

“No, see, only the stones closest to the center of the house count toward the score, and since Japan got closer with their one than Korea's third— Wait.” Christophe turns to him fully then. “Do you not know how curling is scored?”

It's decided. Seung-Gil should have just come alone.

Because he can sense the question on the tip of Christophe's tongue, the question of why Seung-Gil really invited him here, and he doesn't think Christophe's enough of a gentleman _not_ to ask it.

“I never learned the rules,” Seung-Gil beats him to it. “Okay? It always looked interesting, when I caught bits and pieces of it, and I get the basic gist. It's like shuffleboard, right? I just never actually sat down to watch an entire game from start to finish before.”

Somehow his answer flies. Christophe pulls a wry grin, but instead of calling Seung-Gil out on his bullshit, he says, “So you're a virgin.”

“Sure, if you want to call it that. I'm a curling virgin.”

Seung-Gil prays that what he just said isn't some sort of double entendre, either in English or in Switzerland. Could go either way, judging by Christophe's snort.

Then Christophe leans in again, and he must have come to his own conclusion about the making-somebody-jealous question, because he seems to be doing his best to culture the appearance that he's whispering something filthy to Seung-Gil.

“You understand that the point is to get as many of your stones as you can closest to the center circle of the house,” Christophe murmurs, “right? That's called the button. So either you're aiming for the button, or trying to knock your opponent's stones away from it and out of scoring position. Or, if you already have a rock near the button, like Japan does now, you can throw a guard to make it harder for your opponent to hit your rock out of the house. With me so far?”

He goes on, talking about skips and hammers and ends, waxing on the finer points of curl and weight, punctuated now and then by the satisfying crack of granite hitting granite, or teammates shouting directions to one another as the sweepers follow their stone down the sheet. Seung-Gil's mostly following along.

As another end draws to a close, Korea is poised to score three for a sizable lead. But the Japanese ladies take out all three of their stones in quick succession with a single, very well-aimed shot-rock. It's a satisfying ricochet. Christophe whistles, and no matter which team you're rooting for, it seems everyone watching the match can appreciate the skill in that throw.

In the stands right above Japan and South Korea's ice, the Nishigori triplets wave their Japanese flags and perform a little cheer they probably invented, and Seung-Gil's heart leaps. Now, at last, he knows where to look!

He scans the stands around the girls, recognizes Yuuko and Yuuri's old dance instructor, guarding a pile of coats, but can't see Takeshi anywhere. Which must mean—

“Excuse me a minute,” Seung-Gil says to Christophe, not waiting for an answer to jump up from his seat and make for the exit.

But as soon as Seung-Gil reaches the concourse he realizes how foolish and half-baked this plan was.

What did he think, that he would just bump into Takeshi in a concession line or returning from the restrooms? That their eyes would meet and Seung-Gil would see reflected in Takeshi's all the secret hopes he's been harboring since that drunken kiss last summer? That after seven months of polite exchanges on social media, all it would take to spark up a torrid extramarital affair would be a bumped shoulder and a literal static shock?

Seung-Gil's deluding himself if he thinks that. No, he knows the difference between reality and his fantasies, and never the twain shall meet. But Christophe is real, and interested in or at least willing to spend time with him, whether Seung-Gil is fully engaged or not. The proper thing for Seung-Gil to do would be to return to his seat and be the company Christophe deserves.

As Seung-Gil's luck would have it, just when he's made up his mind to do that is when he spies the two of them across the concourse, and they spy him.

Yuuri, eyes bright and innocent behind his glasses, calls Seung-Gil's name and waves, then gestures for Takeshi to follow him as he jogs over.

Suddenly Seung-Gil can't breathe. Takeshi may as well have stepped out of his dreams. His turtleneck sweater pulls tight across his broad chest and shoulders, arms full of snacks for his girls, and Seung-Gil wasn't entirely sure he was into the daddy thing until right now.

Takeshi cracks a warm smile, nothing in it to indicate it's awkward for him, running into Seung-Gil like this. Like no time at all has passed since that week at Yu-topia Katsuki. And like he's completely forgotten about the kiss.

It's too much. It's all Seung-Gil can do to hold his ground in the glare of that smile and mirror it. “Hey.”

“Hey. Funny running into you here.” Takeshi says it so easy, so by-the-by, but he looks at Seung-Gil for just one moment like he's the last person in the world.

Then: “You following the Japan-Korea match too? 'Cause if I'd known you were into curling, I would have invited you to come sit with us and Yuuko—”

“Actually I came with someone.” It's Yuuko's name that breaks the spell. Not that Seung-Gil resents her, just that he wishes now and then that she'd been born at the other end of Japan. Or in a different century. “I'm, ah, I'm here on a date.”

“Oh. Well, good, I'm glad to hear it.”

The last thing Seung-Gil wants is for Takeshi to sound happy about that. If he needed one last bit of proof that he and Takeshi was never going to be anything but a fantasy, that was it. “In fact, I should probably be getting back.” And when Seung-Gil does get back to his seat, he's going to take Christophe up on his offer and flirt the shit out of the next few ends.

Seung-Gil congratulates Yuuri on his medal as he turns to go, but Takeshi calling his name stops him in his tracks before he can get too far.

“I didn't get a chance to tell you last night,” Takeshi says when he catches up, and for the briefest of moments Seung-Gil allows himself to think _I was wrong,_ Takeshi feels something more for him after all. “That was a tough break, that fall on the flip. You looked like you were taking it pretty hard and I just wanted you to know that the whole family was rooting for you. I mean, those few bobbles aside, your program was the triplets' favorite of the night.”

 _The triplets' favorite . . ._ Takeshi couldn't have just lied and said it was his own?

The backs of Seung-Gil's eyes start to burn, but he blinks the feeling away. What's wrong with him? It's a compliment. How selfish and pathetic would he look if he started crying over a compliment?

“In fact, I think Axel might have a bit of a crush on you—though she'll probably murder me in my sleep for telling you that—”

“Tell them thanks for me,” Seung-Gil manages to say evenly. He doesn't remember which one of the girls is Axel—all three look the same to him—and finds it hard to care. “I appreciate their support.”

“Will do. And, hey, chance to start over fresh at Worlds, right? There's no doubt in our minds you're gonna medal this year.”

With a clap of encouragement on the arm, Takeshi follows after Yuuri and leaves Seung-Gil standing, numb, in the middle of the concourse. This has to be some kind of nightmare. But Seung-Gil presses his fingernails into his palms and nothing changes. He wants to run out of the building and get as far away from here as he can, but he remembers his and Christophe's conversation last night and doesn't want to take the coward's way out. So instead Seung-Gil files this encounter away where he can deal with it later and heads back to his seat.

When he gets there, he finds Christophe has been joined by JJ and Isabella. That makes chatting Christophe up rather more difficult, but Seung-Gil really doesn't mind the change of plan. The more people in the group, the less of the conversation he has to be responsible for, and Seung-Gil can count on JJ talking enough for two.

True to form, JJ doesn't interrupt himself to verbally acknowledge Seung-Gil's return, just gives a curt wave and flashes a grin over Isabella's shoulder and keeps right on going.

Christophe, though, notices more than he should. “Everything okay?” he turns to whisper.

“Fine.” And Seung-Gil prays this time he leaves it at that.

“Let's get Seung-Gil's opinion, shall we?” Isabella leans across Christophe to ask, cutting her fiance off mid-sentence. “We're trying to determine if Annie's glasses would be a good look for me.”

“Annie?”

“Korea's skip,” Christophe provides helpfully. It must be a nickname. “She's the badass with the retro frames.”

“ _I_  think I can pull them off,” Isabella continues with a roll of her eyes, “but JJ says they look like something his grandmother would wear.”

“My grandmother literally has a pair just like that,” JJ says. “Babe, you've seen them! Help me out here, Seung-Gil.”

Seung-Gil, however, doesn't see any way he comes out of this a good guy. “This sounds like something I shouldn't get involved in.”

“Wise words,” Christophe agrees. “Though I am curious to see just how much deeper JJ can dig this hole.”

Apparently JJ still thinks he can save himself. “Look, I'm not saying you couldn't pull it off, Izzy. You can pull off anything. That's just one of the many things I love about you. You could even pull off sexy grandma,” he keeps trying, though Isabella's expression only continues to sour, “if that's what you really wanted to go for—”

“But we can all agree I'd wear them best, right?” Christophe says with a cheeky pout, earning him a high-five from Isabella and a healthy serving of JJ's false sincerity.

Seung-Gil vaguely remembers seeing Christophe trade out contact lenses for glasses after they enjoyed the hot springs at the Katsukis' inn. Admittedly he wasn't paying much attention to Christophe at the time. Though Christophe's glasses were somewhat granny-ish, come to think of it. Maybe that's the style now, but Seung-Gil wouldn't be able to say for sure one way or the other.

He's content to sit back and watch the rest of the game, and just let the conversation the other three have over it flow through his mind like water.

Occasionally Seung-Gil peeks back over at the Nishigoris, but is careful not to get caught staring from anyone in their group. If Takeshi mentioned to his daughters that he's here, they've probably discovered Seung-Gil's location already and are keeping tabs on him. Especially Axel. Seung-Gil doesn't want to do anything that might embarrass himself if it's posted to social media.

So when the match wraps up and JJ suggests the four of them get hot chocolate, Seung-Gil leaps at the chance to tag along and escape. In any case, he enjoys listening to the friendly ribbing JJ and Christophe give each other, and Isabella gives them both.

For some reason, JJ thinks Seung-Gil's straight-man answer to everything is comic gold, even though Seung-Gil's really only being himself. Who is he to argue? He's been under so much pressure over the last few years, to make it to these Games and win at all costs, that Seung-Gil can't even remember the last time he was able to hang out with his colleagues as friends rather than his competition. Come to think of it, Hasetsu last summer might have been the last time. So if JJ wants to mistake Seung-Gil's distractedness for a dry sense of humor, that's fine by him.

Maybe that's why Seung-Gil doesn't mind so much when JJ brings up his mistake-riddled free skate. JJ always looks for the positive take-away, even in a disaster like that was. “We all let our nerves get the better of us at one time or another. In fact, there's probably something wrong with us if we _never_ feel overwhelmed by all the pressure. If nothing else, you can think of yesterday as a learning opportunity. You can't stage a comeback unless you have something to come back from. Not to brag but . . . well, just look at the year I've been having.”

“Wait, so, this season is your comeback from taking _bronze_ in the Grand Prix Final last year?” Christophe teases him. “No offense, JJ, but your affirmations are about as helpful as Victor saying they can't _all_ be good hair days.”

“He does have awfully pretty hair for a man,” Isabella sighs. Even JJ has to agree.

Seung-Gil shakes his head at his colleagues. He doesn't see what either one has to complain about. At least they made it _to_ the Final that year.

But he doesn't want to spend the rest of the afternoon feeling sorry for himself. If he's going to turn his mind to the question of the gala, Seung-Gil first has to put yesterday behind him, to speak nothing of last season's disappointments.

As they're walking around with their hot chocolates, taking in the Olympic Village, they run into Sara and Mila.

Or, rather, Sara—with Mila in tow—flags them down with a cheerful “Seung-Gil!”

Her “Hi, Chris” and “Hi, JJ” are more like polite afterthoughts.

“Be nice, Sara's a friend,” Christophe leans close to purr in Seung-Gil's ear as the girls hurry over in their respective team parkas. As if Seung-Gil needs to be told how to behave himself.

But the moment Sara joins their group, he feels smothered by her enthusiasm. Thankfully she doesn't try to give him a hug or a kiss on each cheek, like she does Christophe, but Seung-Gil's sure she would like to.

After everyone catches up and Mila and Sara are re-introduced to Isabella, JJ mentions that they just came from watching Korea's curling team sweep the floor with Japan, and Sara and Mila exchange a glance.

“You know they have curling sheets set up outside for demonstrations, right?” Mila says, pointing her thumb over her shoulder. “Sara and I passed them on our way over here.”

“You guys feel like a pick-up game?” Isabella gasps, her grip on JJ's arm tightening.

“Aren't we missing a couple of players?” Seung-Gil asks.

But Isabella waves that off. “It's fine! Three to a team might not be ideal, but it's not like we're playing for anything. We'll make it work.”

Even if the other's weren't agreeable, it doesn't seem like Isabella is going to let anyone say no. Of all of them, Seung-Gil's probably the only one who isn't crazy about the idea, but Sara immediately pipes “I'm on Seung-Gil's team!” with her hand straight up in the air, and Seung-Gil is pretty sure that if he tried to back out now, he'd lose all the respect points he's racked up with Christophe and JJ today.

Isabella is quick to pick Christophe for her team, acting on an assumption of greater experience. And since they've already started to split up that way, Mila joins the two of them while JJ is shuffled off to Seung-Gil and Sara.

True to form, JJ immediately starts talking a big game, promising his fiancee's team is going down.

But when the two teams huddle up, the truth comes out. “We are so dead.”

“What's the big deal? We can take them,” Sara says, and Seung-Gil would agree. From where he's standing, in her leggings and designer boots, impeccable makeup and nails, Isabella seems a liability to her team. Mila he's not sure about, but Seung-Gil would rather have JJ and his perfectionism on his side than Christophe's sexy bluster and posturing.

“You don't get it,” JJ insists. “Izzy's really serious about this stuff. She played skip for her high school team and took them to nationals three years in a row.”

“Did they ever win it?” Seung-Gil asks.

By JJ's reluctance to answer, he assumes the answer is no. And also a sore subject. “Best if you just forget I ever mentioned it.”

They decide JJ will be skip and Seung-Gil will lead off. Since he's never curled in his life, it won't hurt their team's chances too badly if he uses his first turn to get used to the feel of the rocks and ice.

Sure enough, the first stone he throws sails straight through the house before JJ and Sara can do much but get out of its way.

“That's okay, that's okay,” JJ applauds anyway. “Looks like we've got some keen ice, is all.”

But on Seung-Gil's next turn, he overcompensates. Throws too gently and is just lucky to get his rock over the halfway line despite both his teammates' furious sweeping. JJ can call it a guard all he wants. Seung-Gil's not sure how long his patience is going to hold out.

“Is this the first time you've ever curled?” Sara asks him gently. “It's harder than it looks.”

“You'll get the hang of it,” JJ assures him. “There's a bit of a learning curve to curling.”

“You mean a learning _curl_ , don't you?” says Christophe as he prepares to throw his second rock.

Earning him a round of groans from just about everyone, an enthusiastic high-five from JJ (whose only complaint is that he didn't think of that pun first), and a warning from Isabella not to fraternize with the enemy.

If not for Christophe, Seung-Gil would have felt embarrassed to be the worst of the lot. Christophe's second rock slides right through the house as well, barely missing Seung-Gil's “guard.” Despite his “Whoops,” Seung-Gil isn't convinced that Christophe didn't overthrow on purpose to help him save face. And neither, by the frown on her face, is Isabella.

Seung-Gil has an easier time on the broom. He can follow JJ's example. And then Sara's as JJ shouts directions to them to “Hurry hard!” or “Right off” or “Clean!”

At last they get one rock in scoring position, though Isabella doesn't let it sit there long. Before the first end is even over, Seung-Gil has to admit he was wrong about her. Isabella is laser-focused when it comes to deciding where her team is going to aim their stones, even more so when it's her turn to throw. (Those impractical boots that Seung-Gil was sure would slow her down don't one bit.) Sara and JJ are good, there's no question about that, but Seung-Gil's team is lucky to keep a single rock in the house for more than two turns.

But it isn't about the score. It's about the camaraderie, working with Sara and JJ as a triumvirate to try and put some numbers on the board, and that clean, satisfying sound of granite cracking against granite. Seung-Gil's starting to get the addictive appeal, and starting to understand what Christophe was explaining to him earlier about weight and curl. It's a lot like shooting pool. A lot of geometry and physics. Just with the added factor of a sheet of ice that sometimes has ideas of its own as to where their rocks should go.

It isn't long before most of them are shedding their coats. Sweeping hard really gets the blood pumping, to the point Seung-Gil barely feels the chill anymore.

Strangers gather to watch an end or two, many of them recognizing the skaters. But a surprising number know only Isabella, whose face they recognize from fashion magazines, or some television ad she's in that's been getting a lot of play in South Korea leading up to the Games.

They make it through most of six ends when they realize it's getting dark, and fast. Though it's not the lack of light that makes them call the game (the floods that come on are bright enough to keep playing by) so much as the dramatic drop in temperature that comes with it.

In any case, there's no question which team won. Seung-Gil's threw some impressive take-outs, JJ and Sara managed to steal a few points in one end (thanks in no small part to Christophe), but the contest isn't even close.

“You guys want to get dinner together after this?” Isabella suggests as they all bundle themselves back up and clean the ice for the next players. “Because you know, as skip of the winning team, the first round of drinks are on me.”

Sara and Mila are in, but Christophe declines. “I really wish I could, but I have a couple more interviews scheduled tonight.”

Seung-Gil declines too, despite disappointed protests from everyone but Christophe. Even JJ—though Seung-Gil can't believe he actually minds having dinner alone with three beautiful women, the way he's always bragging about his “JJ Girls” to anyone who will pretend to listen.

As they head their own way, Christophe has to bring it up. “You know, it wouldn't kill you to accept more invitations from your fellow skaters.”

“I accepted yours, didn't I?”

Christophe laughs like he has more he'd really like to say about Seung-Gil's acceptance last night, but thinks better of it. “All I'm saying is that you looked like you were actually having fun today. Letting loose with everyone, losing your curling virginity. . . . Did I even catch you complimenting Sara on her game?”

Seung-Gil sighs. Sara would be who Christophe really wants to get him talking about. Seung-Gil just isn't sure to what end. He thought he already made it clear where he and Sara stand. A little curling, no matter how fun, isn't going to change that.

Though maybe that's not what Christophe was getting at after all. “Just because you started this day with me, SG, doesn't mean it has to end when I walk away.”

“I know that.” And one of these days, Seung-Gil's going to have to talk to Christophe about the presumption of that nickname. “I just had enough fun for one day, that's all. Sara was fine. And JJ . . . well, he's JJ.”

Christophe offers no arguments there. “You wouldn't want him to change a thing, but . . .”

“But a little goes a long way. Nothing I have against any of them, but after a while, their company is exhausting.”

“I see. And _my_ company doesn't exhaust you?”

Seung-Gil is surprised by how quickly the answer comes to him. “No. If anything, it's like being with a dog.”

It's the silence that tells Seung-Gil he's said something wrong, something rude. He looks over, and Christophe has a crooked smile on his face as he stares ahead, as though he can't quite make out Seung-Gil's meaning, or just how much offense he should take.

“I mean, I'm not calling you a dog,” Seung-Gil backtracks, “and even if I was, I wouldn't mean that as an insult. Believe me. Coming from me, it's a compliment.”

“Being compared to a dog is a compliment, huh?”

 _Alright, granted, not usually. Or ever._ But this is different.

“I like dogs,” Seung-Gil confesses, his guilt pulling the truth out of him that he'd otherwise hold close to his chest. “More than people sometimes. They're honest. Dogs know who they are and how they feel, and they're not afraid to show that to the world. And they treat people with the same respect, so you always know where you stand with them. They don't judge—or, I guess, if they do, they keep it to themselves, because they're happiest when the people around them are happy.”

God, just talking about dogs makes Seung-Gil miss his own so much. Misses his grin and the excited way he whines, almost like he's singing a song, when Seung-Gil suggests they go for a walk. Misses how his dog is so in-tune with Seung-Gil's moods, he's always right there right when Seung-Gil needs him.

“So I don't see how it ever got to be an insult to call someone a dog. Seems to me that should be the highest praise.”

Christophe isn't sure how to respond.

And Seung-Gil thinks, _I've ruined it now_. What he said was too genuine, too personal, too sudden. Either that, or Christophe will think Seung-Gil awkward, or stunted in some way, for saying he prefers dogs to people, just like everyone else he tells does.

Instead, the breeze picks up again and Christophe stamps his feet and makes another comment about how fucking freezing Pyeongchang is. It's mostly for show, permission for Seung-Gil to change the subject, and he's thankful for it.

“Shouldn't you be used to this?” he teases Christophe. “I thought you come from a cold country.”

And Christophe laughs, puffing steam. “Switzerland is cold, it's not the surface of Mars.”

It seems to Seung-Gil that the Swiss team could have issued its athletes longer coats. Clearly they were not expecting conditions to be this bitter. But then, even the locals are calling this February unusually cold.

Seung-Gil watches normally cool and unflappable Christophe shivering and cursing, and doesn't know what comes over himself. “Give me your hands.”

When Christophe does, Seung-Gil peels off his gloves and, for lack of a better idea, shoves them into his own coat pockets for safekeeping. Then he pulls Christophe's bare hands closer (they're softer than Seung-Gil always imagined them to be) and presses them between his, puts his lips to the gap between the thumbs, and gently blows his own warm breath into Christophe's palms.

Seung-Gil can tell right away by the stillness that comes over Christophe that what he's done is too much. Even more so than the dog comment. Like Seung-Gil's just bared a piece of his soul he's never shown to anyone before, and put Christophe on the spot having to say something about it.

“Seung-Gil.”

He can practically hear the patronizing laughter already, behind that low, patient voice.

“I don't think,” Christophe says, measuring his words, “this is that kind of date.”

“I know that,” Seung-Gil fires back, hoping the pink in his cheeks might be blamed on the chill. “You said you were cold. That's all I was doing.”

Suddenly he can't look Christophe in the face, can't check to see if his excuse is being believed. It's not like Seung-Gil went looking for romance or a fling when he asked Christophe out this morning. But it seems backwards that Christophe, who was so eager earlier to pretend-flirt before a stadium full of strangers, should have to be the one to point that out.

Seung-Gil is mortified. And his instinctive response is to run.

“I'll let you get to your interview. Wouldn't want to make you late,” he says. And, without a glance back, walks away. As quickly as he can without looking like he's fleeing the scene. Though it's probably obvious anyway.


	3. 14 February

Seung-Gil gets a text the next morning from Sara, inviting him to a party at Czech House that night. Thinking it's probably a Valentine's Day thing, he doesn't answer.

A short while later, same invite, this time from Christophe: “So our friends are throwing me a party at Czech House tonight. JJ bet me a beer you wouldn't come.

“Please come. ;) Don't make me lose to JJ.

“Don't bring anything. Just your charming self.

“And my gloves.”

The last message manages to elicit a little laugh when Seung-Gil reads it.

He doesn't answer Christophe's texts either, but he sets his mind to attend. The Czech hospitality house is only a stone's throw from the dorms anyway, and free to get into.

When he arrives, the place is well lit and K-pop is playing at a loud but not unbearable volume from the speakers. Czech House is full of skaters Seung-Gil recognizes, a lot of other athletes he doesn't. Most of them probably not there for Christophe, though Seung-Gil wouldn't bet any beers on that.

Christophe isn't difficult to find, and not just because of that bright red jacket. He's surrounded by their colleagues, including a few pairs skaters, fresh from their short program, and ice dancers. (Seung-Gil doesn't see JJ or Isabella anywhere, but it doesn't surprise him that Christophe might have made up the line about the bet to get him here.) Georgi has an arm around Christophe's shoulders, beers in both their hands, leaning close to whisper something in Christophe's ear over the din.

It's just another reminder that, as close as Seung-Gil has felt to Christophe this last day and a half, he's still almost as far away as he can get. As if he needed another reason to keep his distance.

“Alright,” Christophe says, waving for attention, “thank you, everyone, for coming out on this very special night to celebrate me, but I'm afraid you've wasted a trip. I've made up my mind and I'm staying twenty-six.”

Georgi shakes him by the back of the neck, pretends to hang his head in sympathy. “Come on, Chris. You know age is just a number.” But then Georgi's grin breaks through. “One that just gets bigger every year.”

“Yeah,” Yuri snorts, “like your ranking.”

“How right you are, Yurio,” Christophe says with a gracious bow. “Finally, something my ranking and your ass have in common.”

On Yuri's left, Otabek barely covers his laugh in time, and tries his best to look offended on Yuri's behalf. But he can't argue with reality.

“Fuck all of you,” Yuri mutters into his drink.

Seung-Gil's starting to think Sara can smell him or recognize his footsteps, because she turns her head then, grinning like she already knew she would see him standing there. “Seung-Gil! I'm so glad you could make it!”

She bounces over to him, linking her arm with his, and pulls him over to the rest of the group. “I wasn't sure you'd come. You didn't return any of my texts.”

Michele huffs when he hears that. “What kind of jerk doesn't return a woman's texts?”

“ _You_ don't return half my texts, Mickey.”

“That's 'cause I can just answer them in person, _Sara._ ”

The other skaters look away, knowing by now that it's just safer not to get between the Crispino twins when they're exchanging choice words.

Which is when Seung-Gil catches Christophe's eye. _I blame you entirely for this,_ Seung-Gil tries to send him with his glare. But if Christophe gets the message, he just grins over the rim of his drink and falls back into his conversation with Georgi.

“But, hey,” Michele's saying to him, pulling Seung-Gil's attention back, “thanks for treating my sister like a gentleman yesterday. Your little pick-up curling match is all she's talked about ever since. Of course, a _true_ gentleman would have made sure her team won—”

“Come on, Mickey,” Sara walks him back, “it's not like we had anything riding on it. It was just for fun—and you weren't there to help me and Seung-Gil against Isabella, so you don't get to complain.”

“Hey, Seung-Gil! Good to see you here, my man!” Emil says, startling Seung-Gil from behind with an arm around his shoulder. He leans in for a hug whether Seung-Gil wants one or not. “So? What do you think of my house?”

“ _Your_ house?” Michele snorts. “I didn't see your name on it.”

But Emil is unfazed. “It's Czech Republic's biggest hospitality house yet! I keep telling you, we Czechs are moving up in the world. Just wait, this is gonna be our year.”

“Is that so? 'Cause from where I'm standing, Italy is kicking your butts.”

If Emil's hug has one added benefit, it pulls Seung-Gil out of Sara's grip. Seung-Gil sees this as his chance to escape.

He slips in easily with Guang-Hong and Leo, and Phichit immediately pushes the four of them together for a selfie.

“Did you get anything to eat?” Guang-Hong asks Seung-Gil after. “The pastries here are amazing! The beer they have on tap isn't bad, either. No more for Leo, though. He's still underage back home.”

“Joke's on you,” Leo says with a smug grin. “I'm not _at_ home. Doesn't the Olympic Village constitute international waters or something?”

“I think technically we're on Czech soil right now.”

Seung-Gil accepts a cup just as Phichit sidles up next to him with his phone. “Check it out.” He's already posted his selfie of the four of them with a couple of witty hashtags Seung-Gil never would have thought to come up with, and even as Seung-Gil watches, the number of likes keeps climbing.

“Nice,” is all Seung-Gil can think of to say, and briefly wonders what it would feel like to be Internet-famous. Probably more pressure than he'd want on himself.

Clearly he's missing whatever it is Phichit's trying to show him, though, because with a long-suffering sigh, Phichit taps a few times, and puts his phone even closer to Seung-Gil's face.

Replies of “SEUNG GIL!!!!” and “my beautiful boy!” and “marry me lsg!” followed by several crying face or heart emoji—or both—shout back at him from the screen. Not from any handles that Seung-Gil recognizes, thankfully.

“I keep telling you you need to get on social more,” Phichit tells him. “You've got an audience out there that's starved for content! And I don't mean more doggo pics.”

More like a thirsty audience, from where Seung-Gil's standing. He's always grateful to have more people interested in his skating, but these replies just strike him as creepy. He gets enough of those types of comments when he just posts photos of his dog, but at least then he can't say that he in any way invited them.

“. . . Well, _I_ heard that they made him and Victor put their medals in a bowl of champagne,” Guang-Hong is whispering (if one can call speaking just above the volume of loud music whispering), “and then they passed it around Russia House and everyone drank from it. I guess it's some sort of Russian tradition and you can't refuse.”

“No way,” Leo says. “Chris would never do that to his medal. You sure it wasn't some other athlete?”

Phichit gasps. “Are you guys talking about Chris's birthday party in Sochi? I heard it was in-sane!”

“You can't trust the rumors of things that _supposedly_ happened in Sochi, though. I mean, _supposedly_  there was going to be a dolphin carrying the Olympic torch across the Black Sea, but that didn't happen.” (“I was really bummed to find out the dolphin was a lie,” Guang-Hong pouts.) “Besides, you weren't even there, so how would you know what went down?”

“Ah, but I've got the _receipts_ ,” Phichit insists, tapping and scrolling furiously through his phone. “Just don't ask me to reveal my sources.”

Leo and Guang-Hong can't resist the promise of juicy dirt for long, and are soon leaning over each of Phichit's shoulders, staring into the glow of his phone's screen.

Having little appetite for gossip-mongering himself—even less if it's about Christophe—Seung-Gil spends most of the party hanging around the periphery of conversations, nursing the same beer and avoiding Sara and Michele.

And avoiding Takeshi, who turns up not long after Seung-Gil with Yuuko and Minako in tow.

There's no sign of Katsuki (or Victor, for that matter), so they spend most of the time talking with Yuri, whom it seems Yuuko still can't stop fawning over. Why Takeshi puts up with it is beyond Seung-Gil, but just further proof if ever he needed it that the man is a saint. It's clear by Minako's lingering gaze that she would rather be basking in Christophe's glow and is too afraid to just go up and talk to him. It's embarrassing for a woman of her age.

Then again, Seung-Gil can't say he's in a much better position. He's more focused on where Takeshi is than the fun (or lack thereof) he's having himself. It hurts too much to be in another party environment with Takeshi. This time, with his wife and the mother of his children nearby. It leaves Seung-Gil feeling a little too much like a wannabe home-wrecker. As if something could come out at any moment that he'll never live down.

He's not worried he'll do something. He hasn't drunk nearly enough for that. But Seung-Gil can't say the same for Phichit, who's snapping photos every chance he can, hoping to catch something juicy; or Georgi or Christophe, or anyone else who was at Yu-topia Katsuki last summer and knows what happened there. It could take as little as a casual mention of that kiss in front of Yuuko, and whispers will spread through Czech House. Seung-Gil will have a rotten reputation before he even leaves the party, and the Nishigoris will hate him for pulling them into it.

So after a little while, Seung-Gil makes up his mind. Find Christophe, return his gloves, wish him a happy birthday, and excuse himself.

It's Christophe who finds Seung-Gil first. “Sorry, Chris,” Seung-Gil tells him, “I think I'm gonna call it a night.”

“Great. Let's go before anyone sees us leave.”

OK, not the reaction Seung-Gil was expecting. “You want to ditch your own birthday party?”

“It's not much of one without Yuuri here to swing from the chandelier with.” Though Christophe might as well be honest: Yuuri's not the one he's missing. “Besides, if I'm going to get birthday-drunk, I'd prefer it be on something other than cheap beer.”

That gets a chortle out of Seung-Gil. “Amen to that.”

“Glad to hear it. I thought I might have to get on my knees and beg you to escape with me.”

“You can always get on your knees later.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Seung-Gil realizes his mistake. As if Christophe's intrigued look isn't enough to make his cheeks burn.

“I didn't mean that,” Seung-Gil tries to backtrack. It just flowed in his mind, like something said in a movie, or a sign he's been hanging around Christophe too much. Either way, further proof Seung-Gil shouldn't try to be funny. “It just seemed like the thing to say.”

“No, I get it.” And suddenly Christophe is disarmingly close. Close enough that they don't have to shout to hear each other over the din. “You're a secret optimist,” he purrs, “I like it. But maybe we should just see how the night goes first, hm? Take things as they come.”

It's surprisingly easy to make their escape. Hardly anyone turns a head when they head for the exit. Those who do probably just assume Christophe intends to come back. After all, who would bail on their own birthday party when it's just getting started?

“Where are we going, anyway?” Seung-Gil asks once they're a few blocks from Czech House, burrowing down into the collars and the pockets of their coats.

Christophe smiles to himself like he's scored some great coup. “House of Switzerland,” he says.

“You don't think that's too obvious?”

“Even if it is, no one's going to want to go that far just for me. Not in this bitter cold.”

Christophe leads them to the shuttle bus terminal.

It isn't until they board one and it starts off up the road that it occurs to Seung-Gil Christophe had a legitimate point about distance. Also, that he has no idea where the House of Switzerland actually is.

“It's at the other Olympic Village,” Christophe says like it's nothing. Not an hour's ride up into the mountains, in the dark.

“Huh. Okay. So when you said you wanted to escape, you weren't messing around.”

“You don't want to back out now, do you? Even if the driver let you out here, I don't know how you'd get back to Gangneung.”

It does feel a little to Seung-Gil like he's jumped into an adventure less than informed about his destination. His coach would have words for him if she knew.

But Phichit's always getting on him to live a life less scripted and scheduled, get out there and do something impulsive. Something for himself. Even if technically Seung-Gil is doing this because Christophe asked him, he wants to be here. He can't think of anywhere he'd rather be tonight than on a bus with Christophe, and that alone is a weird admission to make to himself.

“I'm committed now,” Seung-Gil says, smile tugging at his lips. “Besides, no one should be alone on their birthday. It wouldn't be right.”

Christophe blinks at him. “That's what I always say!”

“Valentine's Day, though—that can go screw itself.”

That earns Seung-Gil a snort. “If it weren't also my birthday, I might agree with you. On principle.” Christophe leans back in his seat, looking just a little bit proud of himself. “I knew we had more in common than met the eye.”

“Other than our exceptional taste in music?”

“And all the pet photos.”

It shouldn't come as any surprise to Seung-Gil that Christophe knows about those. They've been mutuals for some time, out of professional courtesy, even if they almost never interact online.

Seung-Gil thinks about all the pictures of Christophe that come up on his feed, though, and realizes they're mostly taken by other people. Victor or Phichit, if not a fan or a professional. Christophe seems to do a lot of photo-bombing. And posing. The last actual selfie of him Seung-Gil can remember seeing was about ten-percent Christophe, ninety-percent Christophe's cat, and two-hundred percent arty filters. It brings a smile to his lips just thinking about it.

“What?” Christophe asks him.

“You just reminded me how much I miss my dog,” Seung-Gil says. So much his heart aches when he says it. “And _not_ because I said being with you was like being with a dog,” he adds before Christophe can remind him.

Seung-Gil takes out his phone and finds the latest pic his dad sent him of his Husky, turns the screen to Christophe.

“He's a handsome boy.”

“He's with my parents right now. When I was thinking of going home early, I figured the one good thing to come out of my free skate was that at least I'd get to spend more time with him before Worlds.”

Christophe hums in sympathy. “It's not easy being away from them for so much of the year.”

“No, it's not.” _Listen to us,_ Seung-Gil thinks, _talking about our pets like they're our kids._  Most people back home don't get it. It makes him feel like he's normal, talking to someone who does. “I imagine it's a little easier for you, though. Having a cat.”

Christophe knits his brows. “How do you mean?”

But to Seung-Gil, it goes without saying. “Well, cats are cats. They don't get as emotionally attached to their owners as dogs do. A cat's not going to chew up your shoe because it missed you, or run to greet you at the door when you get home.”

“Clearly you've never met my cat. But I suppose if there's one thing that makes a cat easier than a dog, it's that a cat doesn't need to be walked three times a day just to do its business.”

“No, it just stinks up the house with its litter box.” Seung-Gil doesn't care if his disgust shows through. Litter boxes are objectively disgusting.

“Only if you let it sit all day,” Christophe says. So ready with that point, he must have had this debate a few times before.

Still, just the thought of a dirty litter box in his own home makes Seung-Gil shudder. “It's gross. And then they go and lick their butts after they've done their thing.”

“Are you really saying you think cats are dirtier than dogs?”

“It's not what _I_  think. Cats are vectors. People get life-threatening infections from their bites and scratches every day.”

“But cats don't scratch and bite without provocation. They certainly don't eat their own poop for the hell of it and then want to give you a kiss.”

Seung-Gil can feel his face heating up in outrage for dogs everywhere. Someone ought to stand up for the dignity of their species.

But all he's got is, “My dog does not eat his own poop.”

“Okay,” Christophe concedes. Sort of. “ _Your_ dog obviously has standards. And I'm not saying I don't _like_  dogs. I like other people's dogs just fine. I'd just rather have a cat.”

“Well, I'm not a fan.”

“Jesus, SG,” Christophe laughs, “what did cats ever do to you to make you hate them so much?”

_What makes you think it's personal?_  Seung-Gil wants to fire back.

But, if he's truly honest with himself, he does have a good reason for his beef.

“Alright,” he confesses, “you want to know why I don't like cats? When I was little, my grandmother had this Scottish Fold that hated me from day one. Every time I'd go to her house, that cat would seek me out and try to fight me. I can still see the scars when my hands get really cold.”

Christophe shrugs. “You must have done something to offend it. Cats are very good at holding grudges, I will give you that, but they don't just hate people for no good reason.”

_I should have known he'd take the cat's side over mine_. “Trust me, I didn't do anything to this cat.”

“Maybe that's the problem. Maybe it's something you didn't do. Did you return its slow blink?”

“Huh?” Now Seung-Gil is sure he doesn't know what Christophe is talking about.

“Its slow blink.”

And at Seung-Gil's blank look, Christophe turns to face him.

“Look. All cats do this slow blink. It's a signal they send to each other and people to say anything from 'I see you' or 'I trust you' to 'I love you'.” Figuring Seung-Gil probably needs a demonstration, Christophe does one himself, scrunching his eyes like he's smiling at Seung-Gil with them and none of the rest of his face. And drawing it out longer than what's necessary to make his point. “Like that.”

OK, now Seung-Gil's certain he's being messed with. “That's not a thing.”

“It is absolutely a thing.”

“Come on. You just made that up.”

Christophe laughs. “I swear, I didn't! And that's probably exactly what you did to piss off your grandmother's cat. You didn't return its slow blinks.”

“Of course I didn't—because that's so stupid! That's not a thing!”

“To you, maybe. But the slow blink is sacred to a cat. Not returning it is like . . . ignoring someone when they tell you 'Good morning'. Or not returning their gloves you ran off with.”

Seung-Gil can't believe he forgot about the gloves again. But, Christ, what a way to remind him.

He yanks them out of his coat pockets, where they've been since yesterday, and slaps them against Christophe's puffy jacket.

He's not going to apologize though. Not if Christophe's going to keep messing with him. “I still say you're making up that stuff about the blinking.” And Seung-Gil's going to keep saying it as long as Christophe keeps grinning like that. Like he's trying not to laugh.

“You know, it's funny you think that.” Happy to have his gloves back, Christophe tucks them into their respective jacket pockets. “Because you're such a cat.”

Seung-Gil opens his mouth to tell Christophe to take that back, but stops himself. It must be payback for Seung-Gil calling him a dog yesterday. Christophe would probably say he meant it as a compliment too, but Seung-Gil can't see what he could possibly have in common with cats.

They find Switzerland's hospitality house just as crowded but with a more relaxed atmosphere than what they left. Despite the cold, there are people outdoors playing pick-up hockey on a tiny rink or enjoying hot chocolates around cozy fires. The slope above the chalet is brightly lit against the dark mountainside, and they can watch the tiny figures of skiers zigzag down it from inside.

Seung-Gil follows Christophe up to the bar, where he orders them each a small beer and shot of schnaps in what sounds like German.

“Let's have a toast,” Christophe tells him when the drinks arrive. “But this part's really important.” He picks up his glass of schnaps. “We have to look each other in the eye when we drink.”

Like those are the magic words, Seung-Gil finds his gaze drawn to Christophe's, and then he can't look away again. “Why? The toast won't come true if you don't make eye contact?”

Christophe pouts. “Does it really need an explanation? It's just what you do in Switzerland. Don't you make eye contact when you toast in Korea, too?”

But Seung-Gil shrugs. Maybe Christophe is asking the wrong person because he's never really noticed.

“Look. It's the most important part of the toast. Alright? Think of it like a slow blink.”

Doubling down on his bullshit, Christophe slow-blinks again, over the rim of his raised glass. Being Christophe, it winds up being less feline and more flirtatious, almost a wink when paired with his lopsided smile, and it's all Seung-Gil can do not to instinctively mirror it. But he is _not_ going to encourage Christophe's teasing.

“To my health,” Christophe says.

“Bravo your life,” Seung-Gil says into his eyes, and they clink glasses.

Seung-Gil drops his shot of schnaps, glass and all, into the beer and drinks the whole thing in one go, startled a bit by the strength of the schnaps and its slight apricot flavor. It isn't a bad combination with the beer, though.

Only when he's put his empty glass back on the bar does he notice that Christophe hasn't done the same thing. In fact, he's stopped sipping his schnaps about halfway through. “What are you doing?”

Fuck, Seung-Gil thinks, he's committed a faux pas. “I thought we were doing _poktan._ Er, a bomb shot in a beer.”

“I know what a bomb shot is.”

“Well, here you drink it with a shot of soju. Except in place of soju, I just assumed you were going to drop in your schnaps. . . .”

“Is it any good?”

“Actually it is,” Seung-Gil says even while Christophe is trying it for himself.

“Oh,” Christophe says to his empty beer glass, the shot glass making a satisfying _clink_  against the inside of it. “ _Oh._ That could be dangerous.”

So he orders another round.

This time, before Christophe can drop his schnaps into his beer, Seung-Gil asks to be allowed to show him something.

He sets the beer glasses next to each other, less than a centimeter separating them, and carefully balances the shots of schnaps on the rims, each one a little bit off-center. “I haven't actually done it this way before,” Seung-Gil confesses as he concentrates, “but in principle it should work.”

“You look like you know what you're doing.”

Everything stays in place. All set. “Now we toast, on three. _Hana, dul, set—_ ”

They push their glasses that fraction of a centimeter together and the shots tip back, one into each glass, the beer foaming up immediately. It's not very dramatic as far as tricks go, but it's a success. Christophe drinks his down, and Seung-Gil hurries to play catch-up.

“Hey, Christophe! _Viel Gl_ _ü_ _ck zum Geburi,_  Bro!” says a tall man with a beefy build and in yet another red puffer jacket, as he and his three friends approach the bar. Seung-Gil doesn't understand most of what's being said, but the way Christophe and the newcomer exchange brief hugs and get in a few digs at one another's expense, it's clear they know each other well.

Though, judging by the man's top-heavy physique, a figure skater he is not.

“And who's this?” the newcomer says in English, leaning his elbow against the bar. He asks Christophe, but it's Seung-Gil he flashes a warm smile. His eyes are a piercing hazel-gray, jaw the definition of “chiseled.”

Christophe glares at his friend. “What do you mean, who's this? Seung-Gil Lee, South Korea's National Champion! Which you would know if you'd watched my free like you said you were going to, Johann.”

Johann mutters an excuse, but Seung-Gil can't complain. If Johann didn't watch the free skate, he didn't see Seung-Gil make a fool of himself.

Christophe introduces him to the rest of Johann's group: Markus, Romain, and Rudy. They're the second four-man bobsled team for Switzerland—“That's second to go down the snake, not second-best,” Romain is quick to point out.

“Why don't you four join us for a round,” Christophe says, and starts to turn back to the bartender.

But Johann will have none of it. “It's on me,” he insists, sliding himself between Christophe and Seung-Gil. “I can't let you buy your own drinks on your birthday. This guy, right?” he says to Seung-Gil. “Always acting like he's got fat pants—”

“You know I can hear you,” Christophe scolds him.

As for Seung-Gil, he has no idea what “fat pants” means. Johann claps his huge hand down on Seung-Gil's shoulder, even though they've known each other for less than a minute, and for the moment it's all Seung-Gil can concentrate on. The Swiss must just have a different idea of what constitutes personal space, he ultimately decides, because Christophe isn't all that different.

This time, when the bartender sets their drinks in front of them, Seung-Gil lines the beer glasses up, then balances the shots of schnaps on their rims. “We're all doing bomb shots apparently,” Christophe tells the bobsled team, who by this time are riveted to what Seung-Gil is doing, eagerly awaiting the big payoff.

Once Seung-Gil has everything in its proper place, he gives the first shot glass a precise flick, sending it tumbling into its beer and knocking its neighbor over in the process. It only takes a second for all six shot glass dominoes to fall with a satisfying trill of _clink_ s, and the bobsled team is audibly awed. They reach for glasses, each chiming in with a _“Proscht!_ ”

“ _Abeleere!_ ” Johann tells his mates. He gives Seung-Gil's shoulder a hearty shake after they've both downed their drinks. “Where'd you learn to do that?”

“Just something I've been practicing.” What Seung-Gil doesn't mention is just how many late nights out bar-hopping he's had to practice in. “No big deal. It's really just a matter of balance.”

“Heh, isn't everything?” Rudy says, Romain laughing into his fist beside him. Given their respective sports, Seung-Gil honestly can't tell if Rudy's making a joke or not. Or, if so, whose expense it's at.

Eager for a repeat, Markus orders another round. Whatever he says to the bartender, this time the man leaves the bottle of schnaps with them.

Which gives Seung-Gil an idea for changing things up a bit. He tries a circular configuration, winning him a chorus of _wow'_ s and _whoa'_ s from the bobsledders when it goes beautifully, and pulling a few more curious onlookers over to their side of the bar for a closer view.

For the next hour various well-wishers flit in and out of the group—skiers, snowboarders, biathletes. Men and women both. Speaking French, Swiss-German, and Italian—though Christophe mostly tries to bring the conversation back around to English for Seung-Gil's sake. It seems a lot of Swiss Olympians know Christophe well. Or, at least, know him well enough to remember his birthday and drink to his health. Christophe thrives on the attention, too. Each compliment just brings an even more charismatic smile out of him than the last.

Even if Seung-Gil could understand half of the conversations going on around him, he wouldn't know what to say. There's not just a language barrier, but a culture barrier. And more. At least within the circle of men's figure skating, they might be from all over the world but they have the sport in common.

Johann asks him questions about himself every now and then, in English almost as clear as Christophe's, and Seung-Gil answers to the best of his ability. But whatever interest Johann has in him, it's clear he has only a passing interest in figure skating, and Seung-Gil doesn't know what to ask him in return. He almost asks how all of them manage to fit in the bobsled (it seems like it must be a tight squeeze for four large men, all but one of whom are the same height as Christophe or taller), but chickens out in the end.

Seung-Gil doesn't know how to read Johann. There's a guilelessness about him, but somehow that only makes it harder to tell if he's flirting or just a friendly, extroverted sort of person. And every time Seung-Gil manages to catch Christophe's eye over Johann's shoulder, begging him silently for some help or an intervention, Christophe just sends him a wink back that seems to be the equivalent of a thumbs up. Less than helpful there.

About the time they kill the second bottle of schnaps, Christophe taps out. To much protest from the bobsled team.

But he holds up a hand in surrender, blaming age. “I know my limits. I can't recover from this stuff the way I could when I was young.”

“You have to look out for yourself first,” Seung-Gil agrees.

“When you were young?” Romain laughs at Christophe. “What are you today, _Gropi_? Twenty-five?”

“Twenty-seven. But that's like fifty in skating years.”

Romain and Johann scoff at that. They can't be much older themselves.

Markus says, “You'll do another round with us, though, won't you, Seung-Gil?” Really they want him to set up another row of domino shots, and Seung-Gil has a pleasant buzz on and is comfortable going another two or three times.

When those two or three drinks catch up with him, they catch up fast. Along with all the others Seung-Gil had before them.

He doesn't remember who paid for what, or saying good-bye to his new friends, or what he said to make three quarters of the bobsled team laugh and Johann blush.

But eventually he finds himself sitting beside Christophe in front of a fire. The high winds that were plaguing the slopes earlier in the week have died down, leaving the night still. Seung-Gil barely feels the cold for all the schnaps heating him from the inside out.

“Okay,” he says, “I understand why you wanted to spend your birthday here.”

“All the après-ski benefits, no skiing required.”

“You have very generous friends.”

“I guess they're alright.”

They've reached that point in the night and level of intoxication where they're just talking to talk, not caring if what comes out is stupid or worth the breath to say it. Seung-Gil can feel it. Like playing chicken with waves on a beach. He's already gotten his ankles wet a few times tonight, but he hasn't learned his lesson. If anything, he's just stopped noticing the wetness.

“Sorry if I haven't been great company,” Seung-Gil finds himself saying. “Parties aren't really my thing, if that wasn't obvious.”

“I'd say you hid it pretty well. Where did you learn all those tricks?”

“I get dragged out drinking a lot, not by choice, but I don't like talking to people. Too much stress, trying to think of what to say all the time. Setting up drinks is my way of . . . contributing, I guess.”

This is about the time when Christophe would reward Seung-Gil's honesty with some sarcastic mood-lightening one-liner, but when Seung-Gil looks over, he's just staring back this heavy-lidded stare, half-burrowed into his jacket collar.

Come to think of it, by the glassy look in his eyes, he might be falling asleep.

If that's the case, then Christophe probably won't remember much of this conversation come morning. “Anyway, I hope this birthday wasn't a let-down. I know it wasn't as wild as Sochi. At least, from what people were saying about your party in Sochi—”

“I didn't want a repeat of Sochi,” Christophe says, looking away.

And if Seung-Gil were a little more sober, he would take that as his cue to back away, change the subject. But he isn't, so he doesn't.

“It wasn't right. Victor not being there,” Seung-Gil clarifies when Christophe's stare flicks back to him. “Today's _your_  birthday, and he should have been there to toast your health. As a friend, for one thing, but considering what he means to you—”

That gets Christophe to wake up. “What _does_  he mean to me, SG?”

“You know what I mean. Don't look at me like that. You and Victor? It was the worst-kept secret in men's figure skating. Everyone knew you skated that 'Cowboys and Angels' program for him. Like it was your good-bye to him or something. Him and Yuuri getting engaged the way they did—that couldn't not have hurt.”

“Christ. . . .” Christophe rubs his hands over his face. “You sure have a way of raising a man's spirits, don't you? You know, that's awfully big talk coming from the guy who just stalked the Nishigoris the whole time he was at Czech House.”

OK. Seung-Gil clearly brought that on himself, but Christophe doesn't have to say it with that cruel smile.

Then it hits Seung-Gil: Christophe remembers that party at Yu-topia Katsuki perfectly. He must. It isn't just that he knows what happened because he saw Phichit's photos after the fact. Christophe should have been plastered at the time, but somehow he must have witnessed that kiss. He probably saw the triplets at the curling center yesterday and put it all together.

Seung-Gil's mortification must be obvious on his face, because Christophe softens and tells him, “Relax. I'd be a hypocrite if I held that against you, wouldn't I? Seems that's another thing the two of us have in common. We're both hopelessly stuck on married men. Or soon-to-be-, in my case. . . .”

It seems useless to deny it, equally so to confirm what Christophe already knows, so Seung-Gil says nothing.

“Well.” Christophe clears his throat, shifts in his seat. “You know what they say. The fastest way to get over someone is to get under someone.”

Seung-Gil snorts. “They do not say that.” It's just the sort of thing Christophe would come up with just to see if he'll fall for it. It's just as absurd as his slow blink nonsense.

Christophe pouts. “Alright, don't believe me.” In an instant, his phone is out and he's tapping away. “But it could be good for you. Just saying. Help you loosen up before the gala.”

“Wait.” Is he really suggesting what Seung-Gil thinks he is? “Are you serious? Just what kind of guy do you take me for?”

“You can think of it as a way to, shall we say, get the creative juices flowing.”

“That's horrible. And just because _your_ solution to everything is to throw sex at it, doesn't mean I want to hook up with some rando at the Olympics.”

Christophe probably has a whole list of potential candidates in his contacts, just waiting to be narrowed down. In fact, he could be texting one of them about Seung-Gil as they speak. “Who are you talking to?”

“Hm? Oh,” Christophe says casually, “just Johann.” Then he grins. “He's kind of your type, isn't he?”

_You're already doing it!_ Seung-Gil's heart is in his throat. Sure, he finds Johann attractive, but that's beside the point. “He seems like a nice person. But that's all the more reason not to _use_  him to get someone else out of my system! I can't believe you think I would— Would _you_  do that to try and forget about Victor?”

That's it. Not taking any chances, Seung-Gil leans over and grabs Christophe's phone. Because it seems to him that the only way Christophe isn't going to follow through on his threat is if he has no phone to do it with.

“Hey! Careful, that's not a glove,” Christophe admonishes, lunging for it, so Seung-Gil holds the phone behind his back. And when Christophe reaches around Seung-Gil's other side, determined to snatch the phone back one way or the other, Seung-Gil turns his head and closes the few centimeters remaining between them and kisses him.

This ought to put an end to whatever plans Christophe had for him and Johann, Seung-Gil thinks. But that doesn't excuse his leaning in, or taking Christophe lips parting against his as an invitation to kiss him deeper. Though Seung-Gil does both those things anyway.

So when he vaguely feels Christophe prying his phone from Seung-Gil's grip, Seung-Gil doesn't think twice about letting it go. That just frees up both his hands for grabbing on to Christophe's jacket and holding him in place. Because even though Christophe didn't start this, he seems awfully amenable to keeping it going. Like it's a contest, and Christophe is betting Seung-Gil will be the one to break away first.

If that's the case, Seung-Gil is determined not to lose. He runs the tip of his tongue along Christophe's lip, slipping one hand under the collar of the puffer jacket and down the back of it, until finally it's Christophe who has to pull away.

But only a few centimeters. “Jesus, SG,” he breathes.

“I like kissing you.”

That doesn't come out with the nuance that it had in Seung-Gil's head.

Christophe chuckles. “I can see that.”

Seung-Gil sighs. He wasn't trying to state the obvious. Yes, Christophe has technique. He has natural sex appeal, when he's not trying so hard to titillate—the kind that can't be faked.

But more than that, he didn't give a shit. About why Seung-Gil was kissing him, or whether it was a good idea when they're both clearly sloshed, or who might have been watching. He just went with it, like it was the proper, polite thing to do. Like returning a handshake—or a slow blink. Like it just felt _good,_ and worth doing for its own sake _._

That's why Seung-Gil leans in for more, and Christophe doesn't stop him, or hold back. Just lets Seung-Gil rub his fingers over Christophe's stubble and knead his lips, patiently returning Seung-Gil's pressure, until Seung-Gil decides it's enough.

Except, not enough. “We should go somewhere.”

That does get a start out of Christophe. “I thought we were somewhere.”

“Somewhere we can keep kissing.” Seung-Gil rises to his knees, and his head spins. He's suddenly feeling the heat of all those bomb shots under all his layers of clothing—not to mention the eyes of strangers on them, and has no desire for this to end up on social media. Phichit would no doubt find it hilarious, but he would be the only one.

“I don't think you want to make out in public,” Seung-Gil says. Or _is_  that what Christophe wants? It doesn't seem like it would be out of his character.

“Where did you have in mind?”

Then Seung-Gil remembers. “Fuck. Our rooms are all the way back in Gangneung.” Meaning another hour-long shuttle bus ride down to the coastal Olympic Village, with bellies full of beer and schnaps, before they can be alone. Seung-Gil's not sure he can wait that long. Or survive the trip. But what else can they do?

And while he's working it all out, Christophe beats him to the punch. “It's okay. I've got just the place,” he says, tucking his phone back into his jacket pocket.

* * *

Seung-Gil follows Christophe back to the athletes' dormitories right at his elbow, matching Christophe's quick pace and exhaling steam and saying almost nothing. Just keeps staring ahead of them into thin air—like he does when he's mentally running through his program after warm-up and is oblivious to everything and everyone around him. He stamps his feet outside the door of their room, waiting for Christophe to unlock it, hands pushed deep into his pockets, and Christophe almost tells Seung-Gil that it's OK if he's changed his mind. Christophe won't hold it against him.

Then again, maybe Christophe has it wrong. What he thought was nervous energy might have just been fraying patience.

He barely gets the light on and the door closed behind him and Seung-Gil is on him again, like a cat on a mouse. Like no time has passed since the Swiss hospitality house. Pushing Christophe up against the back of the door and kissing him harder than before, sucking in a breath through his nose like it's the first full one Seung-Gil's taken since they started walking here. Only taking his hands off Christophe so he can shrug out of his coat. Then Seung-Gil starts freeing Christophe of his, too.

“Mmph,” Christophe grunts against Seung-Gil's mouth when he almost trips over Seung-Gil's coat. He grabs on to Seung-Gil's hips to catch himself, then slides his hands more comfortably up Seung-Gil's waist, under the hem of his sweatshirt. “You're so hot. . . .”

“I know,” Seung-Gil says between kisses.

Christophe can feel Seung-Gil radiating heat through his thermals, and his cheeks are flushed back to his ears. Christophe thought he ran hot himself, but Seung-Gil is like a furnace pressed up against him, warming the life back into his hands and face and limbs.

Seung-Gil tugs the sweatshirt over his head, and the static electricity crackling between it and his t-shirt leaves his hair sticking in all directions like dandelion seeds. Oblivious to it, he pulls Christophe back toward the bed.

Whereupon Seung-Gil single-axels up onto the mattress, two-footing the landing a bit to regain his balance, and reaches for Christophe again, cradling Christophe's head in his hands as he bends down.

“ _Saengil chukhahaeyo_ ,” Seung-Gil mutters with a sloppy smile against the corner of Christophe's mouth. Starts gathering Christophe's sweater up under his arms. Then, as if just remembering: “That's 'happy birthday' in Korean, by the way—”

“I kind of guessed that.”

Christophe's sweater joins Seung-Gil's on the floor. Christophe throws his undershirt down with it for good measure. Seung-Gil doesn't miss a beat before he's fumbling with the fly of his own pants, and it seems to Christophe that this one-for-me-one-for-you thing is getting a bit tired.

So he tugs Seung-Gil closer by his pockets, close enough that he can rub his mouth and his beard against Seung-Gil's chest through his t-shirt, and takes over on the fly.

“You leave the heat on when you're not here?” Seung-Gil asks him, combing both hands through Christophe's hair.

“I think you're just drunk.” Victor's the same way. A hot drunk who feels smothered by his own clothes. As opposed to himself, Christophe might say: a drunk who just likes to get undressed. “Not that I mind a naked make-out session. If that's what you got me.”

“Help me out of these.” They're talking past each other now.

But their hands are on the same page, if a little out of synch. Christophe gets the zipper only halfway down before Seung-Gil starts pushing his slacks and his thermals off his hips, ignoring Christophe's admonishments to wait for him. When Christophe does manage to get the zipper undone, Seung-Gil sits down hard, bouncing, on the bed, to the loud protests of the frame. The last thing Christophe wants is to be responsible for another broken bed at another Olympics.

But the bed survives—so far—and Seung-Gil picks up right where he left off, undeterred, kicking his legs out and pushing the two pairs of pants down to his thighs. “Just pull them off,” he tells Christophe. “Just—no—yeah, pull them both. . . .”

“No wonder you're hot. Just how many layers are you wearing?” Christophe says as he climbs in after Seung-Gil, but even he knows it's a stupid joke. He's never seen Seung-Gil this bare. Not literally, of course; he's seen Seung-Gil in less than the socks and underwear and thermal tee he has on now. But Seung-Gil looks tousled, and happy—well, halfway to happy—and the closest Christophe's seen him to not giving a fuck. Christophe might as well be here with a stranger.

He lets this strange Seung-Gil pull him down again, and folds Seung-Gil into his embrace as Seung-Gil molds their mouths together.

After the hurry to get here, everything suddenly slows down, and it's just right. They can just enjoy each other like this, turn off their thoughts and just let themselves feel the friction of the kiss and the other's hands slipping across his skin. Christophe starts them off with a slow grind, and Seung-Gil moans at the steady pressure and stretches underneath him.

Just when things are starting to get heavy and Christophe is thinking it's past time he took off his pants, Seung-Gil stops in mid-kiss and his hand stills on the back of Christophe's neck.

“What is it?” Christophe pulls back. “SG? Seung-Gil?”

But Seung-Gil's out. Fast asleep. By the peaceful way he's breathing, he'll probably stay out until morning.

Christophe almost laughs, because of course this is how a night of bomb shots was always going to end. Careful not to wake Seung-Gil—not that anything could now—he climbs off the bed and starts stripping the one next to it of its comforter.

As he starts to drape it over Seung-Gil, he notices the bruise spreading across Seung-Gil's upper thigh, finally purpling up after two days. He took a harder fall in the free than he made it look. But then, Christophe's so used to battle wounds like that himself, it takes a lot these days for one to slow him down.

He'll take the second bed tonight, stay close by in case he's needed.

Though between that warm-up and the schnaps starting to wear off, Christophe doesn't think he's going to get much sleep.

 


	4. 15-16 February

Seung-Gil wakes in a strange room with a strange taste in his mouth, and a strange man rummaging as quietly as he can through a bag on the next bed over.

On second thought, not a stranger. Seung-Gil remembers him from last night. The Swiss bobsledder. Johann, it comes to him after a few seconds. The one with the big hands.

 _Oh God. . . ._ Seung-Gil burrows down under the comforter, hoping he'll go unnoticed. And that's when it occurs to him that he's not wearing pants.

That's also when Johann turns, catches Seung-Gil's eye, and flashes him a sheepish smile. “Sorry,” he whispers, like _he's_ the one who needs to apologize for being there. “Just came to get . . .” Well, it's pretty clear what he came for when he gestures to the change of clothes in his hand.

Seung-Gil wants to die of embarrassment. Johann can't leave soon enough.

When he does, the first thing Seung-Gil does is peek under the covers. Underwear still on (and, apparently, undisturbed): check. What did happen last night, he still isn't entirely sure, but at least he can rule out what didn't.

“You're up.”

With that preamble, Christophe sits down on the edge of the bed facing Seung-Gil. He proffers a little take-out container with a plastic spoon as Seung-Gil sits up. “Hangover soup? I asked around and was told this was my best bet. I must admit I was a little surprised how easy it was to come by at seven in the morning.”

Seung-Gil's not. _Welcome to Korea, Chris._ He can smell the peppers and tinny beef and blood broth of the  _haejangguk_ even before he opens the lid. “Did you want to split it?” Christophe can't be feeling much better than he is this morning.

But Christophe waves off the offer. “I already ate. Anyway, I didn't have quite as much as you last night, remember?”

Not really. Seung-Gil's memory is part of the problem. _Poktan_ 's easy to overdo. You don't realize you've hit your limit until you're two or three drinks past it. Though beer bombs with soju don't usually hit him this hard. Seung-Gil never thought to ask what the alcohol content of schnaps is.

“What happened to my pants?” he asks instead.

“Don't worry, I put them up for you before Johann came in. You were, uh, pretty insistent,” Christophe tells him, “that I help you out of them. Didn't seem like you were giving me any choice in the matter, either. Not long after that, you fell asleep.”

“That explains the two comforters,” Seung-Gil mutters to his soup. He supposes he's ahead of the game if he at least waited until they got to the room to start disrobing.

“I'm not usually like that, you know,” he feels like he has to add. Not that Seung-Gil's ever cared what Christophe of all people thinks of him, but he does now.

“Uh-huh. Which part?”

Seung-Gil grimaces. What can he say that isn't a lie? “I'm usually a lot more discreet.”

“Well, I suppose I bear some of the responsibility. I should have warned you schnaps is Swiss antifreeze.”

Still, with all the pressure building up to the Olympics, it's been a while since Seung-Gil let himself go like last night. Maybe, it occurs to him, all that pressure _was_  the reason.

He takes another sip of broth, feeling the hangover soup warm him from the inside out. The peppers burn the stale taste of last night's beer and schnaps from his tongue.

Christophe just watches him. It looks like he really wants to say something, but keeps thinking better of it.

“What?” Seung-Gil asks him.

“Nothing.”

But Christophe's pursed lips say it's clearly not nothing.

“If you've got something to say—”

“It's just, this makes twice you've thrown yourself at me.”

Of course. Seung-Gil should have known it would be something vain like that. Everything has to be about Christophe, after all, and everything is flattery.

“Once,” Seung-Gil corrects him, in between blowing on his spoon so he doesn't have to meet Christophe's eyes. “Like I said before, I was just trying to warm your hands. You misunderstood my intentions.”

“Alright. One and a half times, then.”

“One and a quarter,” Seung-Gil concedes. It takes an effort to keep the smile off his own lips. “But let's not forget that you started this, convincing me to stay in Pyeongchang.”

Christophe pulls a look of faux-offense. “And it was worth every _won_!”

Then he sobers.

“Maybe I should have said this a few days ago,” Christophe begins again, sounding not quite like himself with such a confessionary tone, “but I try not to date other figure skaters. Especially within my own discipline. It tends to complicate things when it ends.”

Seung-Gil need only look at Georgi and Anya's example to understand that.

However. “What about Victor?”

“I wouldn't exactly call what Victor and I did 'dating.' Which might be why we're still friends.”

Christophe tries to sound casual about it, jocular even, like that was so long ago he doesn't feel anything about it anymore. But Seung-Gil isn't fooled. Any more than he was last night.

“Look. Last night was fun. It was one hell of a birthday party,” Christophe says with a crooked grin. “I'm just not looking for anything serious. I want to make that clear now, ahead of any more misunderstandings. I don't ever want to hear that I'm the reason you quit skating.”

The way he says it, Seung-Gil can only guess that it's happened before. He can't think of anyone in their sport who's named Christophe as the reason they walked away, but it isn't the sort of thing anyone would want to say publicly.

All Seung-Gil does know is that he's never heard Christophe sound so genuinely contrite before. Every other time he's apologized for something, there was a catch to it. Like he only meant it halfway, if at all. Like it was a test, to see if the other person would bend over backwards to forgive him.

“Don't worry,” Seung-Gil assures him. “If I quit skating, the only one I'll have to blame for it is me.”

“Don't say that,” Christophe says. Like Seung-Gil's left a curse hanging in the air and it needs to be banished. Before he breaks an ankle or something next time he steps out on the ice.

But if Seung-Gil believed in bad luck and jinxes, he wouldn't have said it. “All I mean is, no one else is going to take my love of skating away from me.” No, if that love ever dies, if it ever leaves Seung-Gil, it'll be because he didn't do enough to save it. “Besides, even if I had time for a boyfriend, you're not my type.”

“That's right. You like 'em short-legged and top-heavy, don't you?” Christophe winks. “Alas, I can't compete with Johann in that department.”

“Speaking of Johann,” Seung-Gil glares back, “you could have told me last night this was his room _._ ”

“Would it have changed anything? Anyway, he was the one who offered. He had a feeling when we parted ways that you might need somewhere close by to crash.”

Seung-Gil doesn't know what to say to that. At least it puts Christophe's texting last night by the fire in a different light. So he wasn't trying to set Seung-Gil up with anyone after all. Just with a bed. Seung-Gil feels indebted to both of them now.

“Thanks for the soup,” he says. “I owe you one.”

But Christophe shakes his head as he rises from the bed. “I just hope it does the trick. I expect you back in fighting form by tomorrow.”

“What's tomorrow?”

“I scheduled some practice time for the two of us. Thought maybe we could run through our exhibition programs together, give each other some feedback before the big show. You know I'm dying to see what you've got planned.”

“Uh, okay.” Seung-Gil's heart beats a little faster at the thought. With dread. Somehow Christophe seems to have built Seung-Gil's program up in his mind all on his own. There's no way he's not setting himself up for disappointment.

Christophe pats Seung-Gil's shoulder before turning to the door, and the way his fingertips trail after is like a _See you later_. A promise, that whatever this is they have going, it's not done yet. “I'll let you get dressed.”

Once Christophe is gone, Seung-Gil sets the soup safely aside and lunges for his clothes, sitting neatly folded on a chair. His coat is draped over the back and he fishes his phone out of one of the pockets. A bunch of texts from his coach, but no missed calls so no emergencies.

She wants Seung-Gil to make some TV appearances, do some interviews, since he now plans on sticking around. It wouldn't hurt to have him in the stands during the ladies' short and free, either, so it looks to the world like he takes more of an interest in his rink mates back home than he actually does.

Seung-Gil doesn't like the idea of interviews. It brings his hangover raging back with a vengeance. But he knows Coach Park is only trying to help him and his image, gain him some sympathy points with the majority of the public who only follow figure skating for two weeks out of every four years. Worries over practice with Christophe will have to wait while Seung-Gil choreographs what he's going to say about his eleventh-place finish.

Turns out his fight is not yet over. Though Seung-Gil would take JJ and Emil and Yuri Plisetsky over reporters and variety show hosts any day.

* * *

“Where were you???” Victor texts Christophe later that morning. “Yuuri and I went to your party but you were no show.”

So, he came after all.

Fashionably late. As usual.

But not in Sochi. Not the way Christophe remembers it. Victor was the one constant that night from beginning to end, hanging on Christophe through every conversation, whispering in Christophe's ear every moment he got how sexy Christophe was with his Olympic medal and what Victor couldn't wait to do to him. Knocking back vodka shots of every flavor of the rainbow and dragging Christophe out onto the dance floor until said shots got the better of him.

Victor's mouth tasted like fruit cocktail, with a slight lighter-fluid afterburn, when Russia House finally kicked them all out and it was time to drag themselves back to the athletes' dorms. Christophe still remembers the weight of Victor's hand, possessive and hot under Christophe's coat, against the small of his back the whole walk there. He remembers thinking Victor could never be more beautiful, though of course that wasn't true. They didn't break Christophe's bed that night, but structural integrity was almost certainly compromised.

The text hurts. Christophe isn't prepared for how much. Or maybe he just thought he'd finally finished mourning what he's not getting back.

Apparently not.

Christophe doesn't text back. Victor doesn't deserve an explanation, nor does Christophe want to cross-contaminate his memories of Sochi with last night with Seung-Gil. Even now he can't say which are more painful, the differences or the similarities.

He calls instead. Waits patiently through Victor and Yuuri's obligatory birthday wishes that they weren't able to give him in person yesterday.

“Hey, we should get dinner, the three of us,” Victor says. “We haven't spent any time together since the free. And I thought, since it's sort of a belated birthday treat, Yuuri and I could meet you at your hospitality house for fondue—”

“How about sushi?” Christophe is quick to say. Too great a chance they'll run into someone who drank with him and Seung-Gil last night at House of Switzerland, and he'd rather put off that conversation a while longer. “I was feeling nostalgic for our little get-together last summer in Hasetsu. Besides, fondue's a bit heavy for Yuuri, isn't it? That is, if you don't mind.”

“Of course not! Whatever you want, Chris. Tonight is all about you.”

Of course, it's not all about him. It hasn't been about anyone but Yuuri for almost two years.

But Christophe wears the tie Victor picked out for him on some previous birthday, black silk embroidered with a spray of red roses. The one he always has packed away just for an occasion like this.

And though Christophe and Victor fall into their old repartee with ease—Christophe playing up the innuendo in everything, Victor hanging on his every word and gesture and flattering him constantly—it feels more like pretend than it ever has. Like Christophe is outside himself, watching his own terrible rendition of a play he's only just realizing was terrible to begin with. He would feel sorry for Yuuri, who has no choice but to sit and put up with it, if Yuuri weren't so in on their act by now.

He could be cruel, Christophe thinks. If he didn't love Yuuri too, maybe he would be. Remind them both that it was him Victor was with at the last Games.

Victor and a gold medal—that was all Christophe had wanted for his twenty-third birthday. Even silver didn't really feel like settling when Victor was the prize he was aiming for all along.

_So don't let yourself believe you're the first, Yuuri. You didn't set that precedent._

Except precedents aren't what matter in the end. When this dinner is over, Victor won't be going home with precedent. He won't be fucking precedent. Precedent's ring on his finger won't be the first thing he wakes up to in the morning.

And if Christophe's truly honest, he wasn't Victor's first anything either.

Somehow he manages to be his usual charming self through the whole dinner. After two years, that mask fits him comfortably now.

It's later, when he takes it off again, that he doesn't know what to do with himself.

* * *

Christophe recognizes the somber strains of [“They Won't Go When I Go”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oata-ksmxjg&list=OLAK5uy_ks78c88uwzLMQS9HFzxdrPSn2e8j-UCuA&index=3) the moment he arrives at the practice rink the next day. Seung-Gil is already on the ice, warming up. So into the music and his own head that he doesn't seem to notice Christophe come in.

Which is just the way Christophe wants it. Careful not to make any loud noises, Christophe sets himself down and starts putting on his skates, sneaking glances at Seung-Gil the whole time. Like a nature photographer, he wants to watch Seung-Gil skate the way he skates when there's no one else around, no one he has to put his guard up or change himself for.

“ _Big men feeling small_ _,_ ” George Michael's voice echoes through the smaller rink, “ _Weak ones standing tall/ And I will watch them fall,_ ” while Seung-Gil, dressed all in black, weaves simple turns into something like a lament. He pours emotion heavy from his shoulders all the way down through the lines of his arms, just like he had to those maudlin French lyrics of his free skate, feeling every word and only breaking with the act to concentrate on setting up a loop.

Which he lands, seemingly effortlessly, if with only three rotations instead of the four that tripped him up in competition. But whatever Seung-Gil feels he has to prove to himself is up to Seung-Gil alone.

It's not a lament, Christophe realizes. “ _The greed of man will be/ Far away from me/ My soul will be free—_ ”

This is Seung-Gil picking himself back up, putting himself back together. “ _And I'll go/ Where I go,_ ” spiraling into a mesmerizing layback spin, “ _No one can keep me from my destiny._ ”

 _No one, that is, except ourselves._ If Seung-Gil had skated like this a few days ago, so free of tension and doubt, he might have landed his jumps as planned and clinched bronze easily. Just as Christophe was expecting him to. Just as he was rooting for Seung-Gil to do.

But Christophe isn't going to tell Seung-Gil what Seung-Gil's probably told himself a hundred times already.

He applauds, and Seung-Gil shakes himself out of his head. Hurries over to his phone resting on the boards to pause his music.

“You're here early,” Christophe says.

“More like you're late,” Seung-Gil huffs, still catching his breath.

“What do you mean?” A pout. “I got here right when I said I would.”

“Like I said. Late.”

But Christophe catches the smile tugging at the corner of Seung-Gil's mouth and is flattered to be messed with. “I guess I should have come a few minutes earlier. Then I wouldn't have missed you running through your new program.”

Christophe takes the initiative himself, backing up two tracks on Seung-Gil's lock screen. The unmistakeable beat of “Freedom! '90” starts up.

But Seung-Gil just stands there, wide-eyed, like a deer in headlights. Like it's go-time and he's forgotten all his choreography.

After a few bars, it's clear he's not going to show Christophe what he has, so Christophe hits pause.

“It's not ready yet,” Seung-Gil tells him. “I'm still working some things out.”

“I know. That's why I scheduled this time together.”

“That's not what I . . .” A sigh. Seung-Gil doesn't know how to explain it. “Maybe I'm rushing into this. I don't have any choreo put together, just this routine I run through in warm-up.”

“So base your program around that.” Christophe shrugs. “Lots of guys skate some variation of their warm-up routines in the gala. It's what you're most comfortable with, and if you're called to perform when you're not expecting to be, it works in a pinch—”

“Yes, but is anyone going to want to watch it? I don't know. I don't want to look like I'm phoning it in.”

 _Where's all that confidence I saw just a minute ago?_ Christophe's desperate to wrangle it back before it can run too far.

“If it helps,” he says, “I'm taking a page out of your book and doing an entirely new program for the gala. New costume, new song that's only a month old—something no one will see coming. Just for the Olympics. That's what they're all about, right? The unexpected?”

“Sounds like a risk.”

“Yes, but that's the fun of it! It's fresh, it's spontaneous—and I like my exhibitions to be a few parts improvisation anyway. It helps to connect with my audience, if I can feel what they want from me and satisfy them in the moment.”

Seung-Gil snorts and rolls his eyes. “You have to make everything about sex, don't you?”

“Of course. That's my brand! Why do you think I'm asked to be in the gala year after year?”

“Because you win a lot of silver medals?”

“Because I bring the sex appeal.”

“What if _I_ brought it this year?” Seung-Gil says, a flash of defiance in his eyes. “Would that bump you out of the show?”

“Big talk for someone who can't even show me what he's got on practice ice.”

“Maybe if you showed me what you have so far for yours—”

“Uh-uh. I'm not whipping mine out if you're just going to hold out on me.”

Then it seems they're at an impasse. So Christophe has a better idea.

He taps back into Seung-Gil's lock screen and puts on a different song. The popping of a vinyl record makes way for a sultry tropical beat and funky keyboard, which fills the rink as Christophe turns the volume all the way up.

Of course, Seung-Gil recognizes it right away. Track nine. He crosses his arms as Christophe joins him on the ice. Not because he dislikes the song—he doesn't, at all—but because he doesn't trust Christophe's intentions with it. “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean? This is just what we need to get your [soul free](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PrUWE4-eB48&list=OLAK5uy_ks78c88uwzLMQS9HFzxdrPSn2e8j-UCuA&index=9). Like it was the other night. Only, hold the schnaps this time. Come on,” Christophe says as he begins building up momentum and sass to the rhythm. “Loosen up. Dance with me.”

Despite the silly grin he can't hide, Seung-Gil shakes his head. “I don't dance.”

“Then however did you learn the mambo for 'Almavivo'?”

Surely Christophe understands there's a difference between learning a routine with prescribed steps, for a point score and a prize, and making it up as you go along. “I mean the kind of dancing you're thinking of. Club dancing. Social dancing. I don't get the point.”

That earns Seung-Gil a laugh. “The guy who skated the mambo dressed as a parrot needs a point?”

“It wasn't a fucking cosplay.” “Almavivo” may have been a mating dance in its most basic essence, but it was also a serious display of Latin rhythms and technical skill. It stings to hear the guy who skated a lewd program like “Intoxicated” write Seung-Gil's off so casually.

And Christophe is right back at it again. Running his hands over his own body, rolling his head on his shoulders like even he can't believe how hot he is. Flexing deep in the knees and lower back so his ass is impossible for Seung-Gil to ignore.

“ _Now you and me/ I guess we see things differently,”_  George Michael sings, “ _We're night and day/ A bad connection some would say,”_  and if Seung-Gil believed for one minute that Christophe put that much thought into his choice of song, he might have taken it for a theme for the two of them.

Except Christophe on the ice isn't that deep. Best not to read into it.

“ _And I don't want nothing to change/ I don't want nothing to change,_ ” the song swears as Christophe runs through his usual bag of tricks. Every move he makes says _Look at me. Want me. Never take your mind off me._ It's the same fantasy he always delivers, that he wants his audience as much as they want him. That they can have it all, his soul, his sex, and the adoration he gets in return is what sustains him until the next skate.

It works every time. But Seung-Gil's seen him do it all before, and better. These are cheap thrills, Christophe out of a box, and Seung-Gil's sure he can do it fresher, subtler.

“ _When you touch me, baby/ I don't have no choice,”_ Michael sings in that keening falsetto as Seung-Gil gets going. But he's not going to throw himself at his imaginary audience the way Christophe does. Or the way he did at Christophe two nights ago.

Aloof self-possession was what won Seung-Gil fans with his mambo last year. Swaying his hips, dragging his fingers through his hair. Dangling himself before his fans like a juicy strip of meat, before snatching himself back. Leaving them salivating over what they can't have.

“ _Oh that sweet temptation/ In your voice. . . ._ ”

Temptation is one thing Seung-Gil has down pat. He spirals spread-eagles around Christophe, just out of reach. Laces his fingers behind his neck and drags them unhurriedly all the way down his front.

It's onanistic, and more than a little cliche. And it achieves exactly the effect he's going for.

But Christophe won't concede that to him so easily. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” Seung-Gil scoffs.

“The body language is there. Or, it's close. But I can still see you thinking too much. Where's the passion? The reckless abandon?”

“The _what?_ ”

“Make me feel like you're skating to me and me alone.”

There's no one else here Seung-Gil _could_ be skating to—unless he's put some imaginary Nishigori Takeshi on the bench.

But just the suggestion that he's lacking in any way gets Seung-Gil fired up. He's heard the criticism before and he'll be damned if he's going to prove it true right here and now, in front of Christophe.

“ _Higher and higher,”_  the music repeats, “ _Won't you come with me/ Baby gonna get my soul free,_ ” and Seung-Gil takes that as his ambition, throwing himself into a step sequence across the length of the rink. He'll show Christophe that he can connect and seduce just fine with body language alone. That's what everyone's going to be watching anyway.

Seung-Gil's footwork is his strong suit, always has been. No movement is wasted, no line unfinished. He rehashes a few of the flashier moves from his mambo, the twizzles, the flamenco arms. Borrows some from Christophe's free skate this year that Seung-Gil would never admit he's been practicing since October.

But Christophe recognizes himself in it. It's half burn—half _See? I can do sexy-magic flicky hands, too—_ and half homage. Christophe started this, with his “Cowboys and Angels” skate, with his invitation to dinner. If that makes his style free for the taking, then two can play at this game.

Christophe catches up with him, weaving in and out of Seung-Gil's path, and before long, they're trading off their flirtiest tricks, ramping up the raunchy suggestiveness of cantilevers and slides just for the hell of it until the whole exercise has become downright ridiculous.

Then, somehow, the farce plays itself out and they come out the other side of it, giving their all to one last reprise of “ _When you touch me, baby”._ They gravitate toward each other, into an ever tightening spiral. _“Oh that sweet temptation”_ and Christophe catches Seung-Gil's shirt at the waist, pulls them to a gentle stop, _“in your voice. . . ._ ” Pulls them close.

Now that they're not going anywhere, all the energy of their skate catches up to them, leaving the narrow gap between them charged. It may all have been just for show, but up close like this—close enough for Seung-Gil to count Christophe's eyelashes if he wanted to—close enough for Christophe to realize he's never noticed the exact shape of Seung-Gil's lips before now—all that playful pretense evaporates, like the steam of their breath in the air.

“What do you think?” Christophe says, his voice little more than a whisper. “Do you think someone like me, and someone like you, could ever . . .?”

“You said you didn't want anything serious.”

“I know what I said.”

The song changes before Seung-Gil can respond, and it breaks the tension. He pushes away and over to the boards, turning off the music.

In the meantime, Christophe beats him to the gate.

“What if it didn't have to be serious?”

“You mean just for the Games?” Seung-Gil says as Christophe hands him his blade guards to slip into. He wants to hear what Christophe has in mind before he gives an answer one way or the other.

“Why not? We could have fun together. We have fun in the rink, and I think we understand one another. Why not enjoy each other a little while we're here?”

Seung-Gil can't help a smile, but he keeps it turned away. “You just want to finish what we started on your birthday.”

“Well, yes. Among other things. _If_  that's something that interests you,” Christophe amends when Seung-Gil, finished with his blade guards, turns back to face him. “If you're worried about your reputation—”

“I do know how to be discreet, thank you—”

“About mine, then. I'd understand. But I happen to be pretty good at avoiding scandal. And as it turns out, I like kissing you, too.”

“So I noticed,” Seung-Gil says. His recollection of that night may be hazy, but Seung-Gil remembers both of them enjoying it and not being shy about how much.

Still, it's flattering to hear Christophe say it out loud. It makes Seung-Gil feel bold enough to toss Christophe's own words back at him: “So I guess this is you throwing yourself at me for a change, huh?”

“I guess you could put it that way.”

“And what if I want more than just kissing?”

In response, Christophe sinks down on one knee.

Seung-Gil starts. He expected Christophe to up the ante, not go all in. His breath catches in his throat when Christophe glares up at him from the level of his crotch, daring Seung-Gil to flinch when he leans forward.

And starts tugging at the laces of Seung-Gil's skates. Even so, Seung-Gil shivers, biting down quick on a gasp. Christophe's so close now that, even through his workout pants, even through his dance belt—holding everything in an upright position that now seems much more vulnerable than intended—Seung-Gil can feel the heat of Christophe's breath, warming and dampening the fabric, sticking it just a little closer to his skin.

“Jesus, Chris,” Seung-Gil hisses. It's all he can do not to run his fingers through Christophe's hair, just starting to curl with sweat, like Seung-Gil does in the fantasies he's been having lately.

He leans back and grips the boards instead. It gives him a chance to look around the rink to make sure they're still alone, and that's when Seung-Gil truly feels how spare the practice rink is. There are just two rows of benches between them and the wall, and everything is flat. Literally the only thing to hide behind are the boards surrounding the ice. “Anyone could come in here and see this.”

A janitor, an official—or worse, a colleague. At any moment one or all of the above could walk through that door.

But Christophe only seems to see that possibility as reason to redouble his efforts.

“So let them see,” he purrs, mouth ghosting over Seung-Gil's crotch with the barest of pressure, following the line of his dick through his pants. “Maybe we'll make someone's day. We'll be an Olympic memory they won't soon forget.”

Christophe's certainly making himself an indelible part of Seung-Gil's memory. It's just enough sensation to be maddening. And Seung-Gil's certain that's the point. Even the methodical way Christophe pulls his laces loose is like a striptease.

There's no denying it's effective. Seung-Gil shifts his hips between Christophe's mouth and the boards at his back, just enough to let bubbles of pleasure fizz up through his belly, and lets his eyes fall closed, ready to lean back and enjoy whatever slow ride Christophe has planned for him.

The door swings open, and a trio of women stroll in, talking and laughing.

Given a choice between fight or flight, Seung-Gil freezes. His heart hammers in his throat. A part of his brain thinks that maybe if he was quiet and still enough when they came in, they won't notice that he's there.

But the ladies break off their chatter, staring right at him, and it's no use. _I'm never going to live this down._ The one consolation Seung-Gil can find—the _one—_ is that Sara and Mila aren't among the women. But the older of the three is a coach, and there's no way this isn't getting back to Coach Park. Seung-Gil can hear her lecture now. About keeping his public image squeaky clean, how he couldn't even wait until the Games were over, and does she really have to sweep another one of his poorly thought out affairs under the rug—

“Was it good for you?” Christophe says, cool as can be and loud enough for the whole rink to hear, as he gets back to his feet.

And Seung-Gil can feel the blush spreading hot across his skin. Words fail him. He hears the youngest girl whisper Christophe's full name to her colleague, as if she can't believe she's breathing the same air as him. Seung-Gil's had this nightmare before.

“Practice, SG,” Christophe says, yanking him back to himself. “Did you find it productive?”

“Hm? Oh. Yes?”

“Alright. Then let's let the ladies have the ice. Shall we?”

Pulling off his skates, Seung-Gil hurries after him to the men's locker room. At least the dance belt conceals how hard he is, but the women probably wouldn't notice anyway. They're too busy following Christophe's backside with their eyes.

Once inside the locker room, Seung-Gil sees no more reason to hold back. “I told you someone would come in!”

But Christophe doesn't seem the least bit concerned. “Relax. They don't know that anything happened.”

“Nothing  _did_ happen. We're just lucky we were interrupted when we were.”

Wrong thing to say. There's that look in Christophe's eyes again. Like every word out of Seung-Gil's mouth is just daring Christophe to prove him wrong. “Are you saying I don't finish what I start?”

Seung-Gil's not saying anything of the sort. “I guess I am.”

The solution occurs to Christophe momentarily. “I'm going to hit the showers. You're welcome to join me, if there's nowhere else you need to be.”

* * *

It's all Seung-Gil can do to keep silent in the locker room shower. He's sure they're breaking some unposted rule—if not a social taboo—sharing the stall, no matter how much Christophe assures him it happens all the time.

Maybe it does with Christophe. “Even if someone hears us in here,” he whispers against Seung-Gil's wet hair, resting his hand on Seung-Gil's waist, “you think they'll have the gall to say anything?”

Christophe's grip is decidedly platonic, but his proximity sends a little thrill coiling through Seung-Gil's belly. Not to mention all that sweet temptation that Christophe drenches his words in.

But even if they're not doing anything particularly indecent—yet—Seung-Gil has no desire to be caught in a compromising position with Christophe twice in one day. He elbows Christophe back out of the spray, not unkindly. Just needing a moment under it to calm himself down before he can get too excited.

“I guess we could always say we're conserving hot water,” Seung-Gil says when he feels it's safe enough to turn around. Though it seems that in order for that to be true, they'd have to be making a bit more of an effort to get themselves clean.

They take turns, soaping up and sharing the spray. Everything is still tight from practice, each muscle standing in relief, and Seung-Gil takes every chance he can get away with to let his gaze linger over Christophe's naked body. He'll be thinking of this later, when he can't sleep. Of the bounce of his thighs and buttocks as Christophe shifts from one foot to the other. Of the pattern of rivulets the water makes down his back, that Seung-Gil wants to trace with his fingers, his mouth.

Christophe has the washcloth between his legs when he catches Seung-Gil staring at him. “Enjoying the view?” he asks. “We could rub one out together. Maybe make a race of it. See who gets there last.”

He catches the tip of his tongue between his teeth while he waits for Seung-Gil to either answer or make the next move, and it drives Seung-Gil crazy that he can't tell whether Christophe's being serious.

“Shut up,” Seung-Gil tells him, erring on the side of caution. He gives Christophe's arm a slap with the back of his hand for good measure when Christophe laughs. The wet smack echoes off the tiles like a shot.

“Suit yourself.”

Despite the exertion of practice, despite the hot water and steam doing their best to soothe away his tension, Seung-Gil steps out of the shower feeling more awake than he has in days. He watches Christophe dress like they haven't changed together a dozen times already.

When they're dry and clothed again, Christophe leans close to capture Seung-Gil's lips in the first kiss they've shared sober. It's quick, like a wink—blink and you miss it—but Seung-Gil can feel the familiarity in it. It's a welcome change.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Christophe says as he pulls away. His voice is husky, cheeks still pink and glowing from the shower. “Up for another practice session? Same time and place?”

Seung-Gil almost says yes on reflex.

But he remembers: “I told Sara I'd come watch her in the short.”

Christophe's eyes widen, impressed. “You're answering Sara's texts now? Wow, SG, I'm so proud of the progress you've made in just a few short days.”

“Yeah, yeah, and it's all thanks to your good influence, I'm sure,” Seung-Gil snarks back. “Anyway, I think she knows by now that I'm not interested.”

“Uh-huh.” Christophe could tell him that Sara's not interested in him either—not the way Seung-Gil thinks she is, anyway—but better to let Seung-Gil live in the illusion.

But if Seung-Gil had his choice of which way he'd rather spend his time . . . “I could always cancel.”

“Better not. You've got Sara's hopes up now, and you really don't want to have to answer to Mickey if you dash them. We'll work something out.”

Christophe slings his duffel and skates bag over his shoulder, and tosses one last wink Seung-Gil's way for good measure. “Text you later.”

“Okay. Later.”

But it's now Seung-Gil wants. It's now that has to walk back out into the Olympic Village, warm and restless under the skin. Seung-Gil wonders if everyone he passes can see it, written plain across the smile he can't seem to wipe off his face.


	5. 17-22 February

Seung-Gil arrives halfway through the ladies' competition the next day. Neither Sara nor his rink mates will be skating until the final two sets, and he wants to makes sure Sara can see he kept his word about coming to watch her. His appearance there earns him a suspicious scowl from Michele, but Seung-Gil wouldn't expect anything different. Then he goes to check in with his coach.

Turns out she was just waiting for him to arrive so she could give him the news in person. “The gala organizers contacted me this morning, and they want to know if you'll skate in the show.”

Seung-Gil almost laughs in relief. Christophe said they would want him. And Seung-Gil probably spaces out a little thinking about telling Christophe he was right, because Coach Park has to almost shout his name to get his attention back.

“What do you want me to tell them?”

“You can tell them I'll do it.”

She wants to know if he's prepared, and Seung-Gil doesn't know how to tell her yet that he won't be doing the same exhibition program he's had all season, so he deflects and escapes into the stands.

He isn't seated long before Phichit finds him and helps himself to the empty seat next to Seung-Gil.

“When were you going to tell me about you and Chris!” are the first words out of Phichit's mouth when he sits down.

Seung-Gil's heart leaps into his throat. And not just because it feels like Phichit said that loud enough for everyone in their section to hear. This is exactly what he was afraid of, that word would get out before Seung-Gil has any chance to prepare those closest to him.

But he says to Phichit as evenly as he can manage, “I don't know what you're talking about,” buying himself some time, knowing Phichit will be only too happy to educate him.

Which he does, opening up his phone. “You mean you don't remember sneaking out of Chris's birthday party with him? It's all over the Internet, Seung-Gil. You two were _spotted_ —” Phichit says the word like it's a scandal in and of itself “—at the House of Switzerland.” And he turns his phone's screen toward Seung-Gil with Exhibit A.

Seung-Gil's expecting a jerky video of him and Christophe making out by their fire pit, and prepares himself to flat-out deny the proof.

Instead, it's video of him knocking down domino shots for the Swiss bobsled team that Phichit shows him.

“I can't believe you didn't invite me! Or at least get a selfie with some hot downhill skiers.” Phichit pouts, his fear of missing out getting the better of him. “I thought we were friends, but friends don't keep each other out of the loop like that.”

“Sorry,” Seung-Gil shrugs. It's all he can do not to break into a grin, because boy does he feel like he's dodged a bullet. “I guess I was too many drinks in by that point to think about documenting any of it.” Not that Seung-Gil would have documented that night even if he'd been perfectly sober.

“Yeah? Well, next time, _call me._ Okay? I will be more than happy to document the fun for you.”

Warm-up for the group of ladies on the ice comes to an end, and as the penultimate one steps back through the gate, and announcer calls the name of the skater from Hungary. The audience, including Phichit beside him, takes a break from their conversations to applaud. Seung-Gil arrived late on purpose, but there's still this whole group to get through before his countrywomen skate, and Sara won't take to the ice until the final one. He's in for a long, boring couple of hours ahead of him.

As if feeling his pain, his phone buzzes. Seung-Gil takes it out right away to find a text waiting for him from Christophe. The practice rink is going to be packed tomorrow with women working kinks out of their free skates until the last minute, so he thinks they should try to squeeze some time in right after.

Part of Seung-Gil wonders what he might find if he went downstairs to the practice ice now. Would Christophe be waiting there for him, like they both had the same thought? It seems like he would have mentioned it in his text if that were the case, but the fantasy brings a small laugh to Seung-Gil's lips anyway, as he stares at his phone's screen.

Phichit looks over at him, and gasps. “Oh my God, Seung-Gil! Are you seeing someone?”

“What?” Seung-Gil hurries to hide his phone. A little too fast.

“Holy crap, you are! Who is it? Is it someone I know? _Is it another skater?_ ”

Thankfully Phichit lowers his voice with the last question, but Seung-Gil knows by now not to tell him anything he wouldn't want getting out publicly. Not that there's anything to tell. “It's nothing serious,” Seung-Gil starts to say.

But somehow that only makes it worse. “Whoa. Hold on. _You_  got yourself some Olympic peen?”

“I'm not sure which part of that I should be more offended by. The suggestion that I'm that easy, or that hard-up. Either way, you make me sound desperate.”

An older lady seated behind them shushes them, and Phichit is quick with a charming smile and an apology. Seung-Gil just clamps his mouth shut and faces straight ahead so she can't see how red he turns.

The skater on the ice isn't bad, even if she's not going to win any medals. Hers is a hard rock song amid a sea of Tchaikovskys and Debussys, denim and black leggings amid lace and pastels and short skirts—bold for an Olympic year when almost everyone wants to play things safe—and the crowd appreciates the change of pace. Phichit certainly does, whooping and applauding when the young skater lands her final jump pass and celebrates with a little air guitar.

The boldness of the choice rubs off on Seung-Gil. Before he knows it, he's planning out his own skate in his head. He can't wait for some time alone to put in his earbuds and try out some choreo (thankfully his roommate has a qualifier tonight that should run late), let alone for tomorrow night with Christophe.

His phone buzzes again. Christophe wants him to bring his exhibition costume with him when they meet up. As to why, he doesn't say and Seung-Gil can only guess.

Phichit, who's watching him out of the corner of his eye, says, “Mr. Not-Serious again?”

“It's just Chris,” Seung-Gil tells him. And to the shock on Phichit's face: “And it's not what you're thinking.” Never mind that Seung-Gil would kind of like it to be. “We're helping each other with our exhibitions.”

This time when Phichit's eyes go wide as saucers, Seung-Gil doesn't mind. “Does that mean you made the cut? Congratulations! I'm so proud of you, Seung-Gil! And jealous.” Phichit may be a fan favorite, but his finish after the free makes him a long shot for the gala.

“The benefits of the Olympics being in your home country.”

“Can't argue with that. But this is your chance to redeem yourself!” Phichit says, back to nothing but selfless enthusiasm and encouragement. “Show the world what we all know you can do and leave these Games on a high note! Are you going to do 'Arirang' again?”

Some spectators are bound to be disappointed when Seung-Gil doesn't skate to that old folk song, like he's been doing in galas all season, but it's a popular choice this year. At least one other skater is bound to do it.

“Actually, I have something completely different planned. I think you'll be surprised.”

“Well, now I really want to know what it is.” Phichit twists in his seat, practically vibrating with impatience. “You sure you can't tell me? Just a little hint? Come on, Seung-Gil~ Don't you trust me to keep it a secret?”

Seung-Gil glares back. “Would you trust you?”

“Fair point.” But Phichit smiles to himself as he turns back to the rink, and Seung-Gil knows better than to think he'll let it go. “I'll still be right there in the front row to cheer you guys on. You had me going for a second there, you know. The way you were smiling at your texts, I almost believed you and Chris were . . .”

Seung-Gil waits for him to finish that thought. Phichit thought they were what? Flirting? Fucking? Dating?

“Nah, forget it,” Phichit comes to the conclusion on his own. “The two of you? With your polar-opposite personalities? It's about as likely as a cat and a dog getting together.”

Seung-Gil almost asks which one he'd be in that scenario, but doesn't want to prove Christophe right.

* * *

Seung-Gil brings a few different costumes with him the next night. The one he's been using all season for his “Arirang” program, with its ombré pastels and rose of Sharon, and a few spares from previous years he packs in case of wardrobe malfunctions.

Christophe needs only a glance to make Seung-Gil's decision for him. “The black one.”

“You sure? You don't want to see it on first?”

“I don't need to. As long as it still fits.”

The black costume's top is a jacket-like shirt that Seung-Gil could unzip all the way if he wanted, broad in the shoulders, with plenty of faux-leather panels. But Christophe has another reason to prefer it.

“Mind if I borrow this for a few days?” He doesn't wait for an answer to start folding up the top and tucking it into his bag. “Don't worry,” he says to the unspoken concern on Seung-Gil's lips. “I'll have it back to you before the gala. I just want to run it by my stylist first.”

“You travel with your own stylist?”

“Don't you? It's the Olympics, SG,” Christophe says like Seung-Gil really ought to know better. “I thought your coach would want her skaters to look their damn finest for the cameras.”

Coach Park does want that—expects it, even—but keeping an in-house stylist is expensive. Even with their newfound closeness, Seung-Gil isn't quite ready to tell Christophe that he usually leaves the style decisions to his mom.

Seung-Gil stifles a yawn as he finishes his warm-up stretches. He isn't really tired, but sitting still for a couple hours and watching others skate left him plenty of time to think about what he wanted to do with his own program. He's eager to put it into practice, even if it is getting late in the evening.

“Okay,” he prefaces when he's finally ready to begin. “It's still a work in progress, so bear with me.”

“I'm not expecting perfection the first time I see it,” Christophe tells him, trying to be helpful and permissive. It's the sort of thing that Josef would tell him when he was younger, and nervous about stepping outside his comfort zone and trying a different style for the first time.

This time, when [“Freedom!”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=diYAc7gB-0A&list=OLAK5uy_ks78c88uwzLMQS9HFzxdrPSn2e8j-UCuA&index=2) starts up, Seung-Gil knows what to do. He knows this song back to front, every little beat and turn of phrase, and he knows which ones he wants to punctuate with a jump or a twizzle. He works in some elements of the mambo, knowing his more dedicated fans will appreciate nods to his previous programs. Somehow this, even more than what he did in competition, feels like the culmination of four years of obsessive hard work and dedication.

But Seung-Gil can't let the pressure of expectation weigh him down now. He tunes out that part of his mind that runs on point values and just lets the music move him. Just like he does when he's warming up to the song.

Christophe notices the change immediately. “ _Gotta have some faith in the sound,_ ” George Michael sings, “ _It's the one good thing that I've got,_ ” and it's the best advice he can think of for someone in Seung-Gil's position to take to heart. Christophe's been where Seung-Gil is enough times. He remembers how hard it was to switch off his critical mind, back when he was struggling to break into the top five. Nor can he think of a better song to surrender control to.

All he wants to do now is lean back and enjoy watching Seung-Gil skate the song through. But Seung-Gil will expect a critique when he's done—he wouldn't be showing this to Christophe otherwise—so Christophe makes an effort to take note of what he loves, and what he feels Seung-Gil could tweak or pay extra attention to. Josef always made that part look easy, but it's not.

Christophe fears that if he starts looking for things to change, even with the intention of improving them, it will be like taking ownership of this program, and that's the last thing he wants to do. The ultimate irony for a song that declares _I don't belong to you, and you don't belong to me._

Because there's a lightness to Seung-Gil's step work that wasn't there two days ago, and certainly wasn't there in the free. Like he's so used to skating with shackles on his ankles and they're suddenly gone. Christophe wasn't expecting to feel so jealous tonight, let alone so proud. The last person whose skating he felt both so strongly and simultaneously for was—

Maybe it's time to let Sochi go. For real this time. Recognize these wounds he carries around with him are self-inflicted and let the pain start to heal.

What could it hurt? No one's going to take Sochi away from him; it exists inside Christophe's mind perfectly preserved. And it's never going to repeat itself.

So what's he waiting for?

* * *

The next few days pass much the same way: Seung-Gil pantomiming his choreography any spare moment alone he can get, listening to “Freedom! '90” on repeat until he starts to doubt he knows what it means anymore. Editing his music on his laptop to get it down under five minutes. In between, jogging up and down the stairwell of the athletes' dorms to keep his stamina up.

He receives texts from Phichit and Leo and Guang-Hong, inviting him out to a meal or an event, and Seung-Gil accepts as many as he can. Because Christophe was right: He doesn't want to look back on these Games regretting all the things he could have done and seen and experienced, and didn't.

Then practice with Christophe in the basement rink, followed by a shared shower.

Each hour they spend together fine-tuning their programs leaves Seung-Gil more confident he's getting closer to good enough, that he'll make it there in time.

And each shower, full of Christophe's innuendo and his just _being_  there, utterly naked and unabashedly himself, only leaves Seung-Gil feeling more restless and unsatisfied than the last one.

Finally, he has to say it.

“I think we should have sex.”

The words just come out as they're finishing getting dressed and bundled up to go back outside.

“Well, it's about time,” Christophe smiles, triumphant. “I was beginning to worry I was losing my touch, after all the opportunities—not to mention the hot water—we've wasted—”

“I'm not doing it with you in the shower. Jesus.” That should go without saying. Christophe already knows Seung-Gil's position on public displays of affection.

Maybe it's a more serious proposition than Christophe had in mind, but Seung-Gil is in this too far to back out now. “My room. After the gala. When we're finished with skating. I want to end these Games with a bang, and, after all we've been through together here, I want it to be with you.”

Christophe sobers then. “You're sure?”

Why would Seung-Gil say it if he wasn't? Just because he's not an exhibitionist like Christophe doesn't mean he's a blushing prude who doesn't know his own mind.

But it's clear from his stare that that wasn't what Christophe was asking at all.

“Yes,” Seung-Gil tells him. “I'm sure.”

Christophe just smiles to himself as he zips up his jacket and hoists his skates bag over his shoulder. It's not like him to be the quiet one. It's almost enough to make Seung-Gil doubt whether he's been reading Christophe right this entire time.

“Okay, SG,” he finally says. “It's a date.”

* * *

It doesn't really feel real until the first meeting with all of them together, detailing the group skate.

The committee in charge of the gala wants the participants to do some cheesy routine together to a pop song that's objectively bad; but someone high enough up the food chain has decided it will play well with the at-home audience, who mostly only watch figure skating every four years anyway. Now, in addition to his own program, Seung-Gil has this one to learn in just a matter of days. But that shouldn't be difficult. The synchronized part is pretty basic, and there's room for everyone to show off their personal strengths and style as they circle the ice in their respective disciplines.

After the meeting, Seung-Gil decides he can no longer put things off. He paces outside the Ice Center in the biting cold and calls the one person he should have given the news to last week.

“Seung-Gil- _ah_ ,” his dad picks up instead. “How's Pyeongchang? Are you ready to come home yet?”

In other words, is he calling because he finally ran through what he budgeted for himself for the Games? But Seung-Gil can't blame them for assuming. They don't know.

“Is Mom around?”

The tense pause on the other end tells him everything. “She's a little busy at the moment,” but Seung-Gil can hear her in the background, along with his dog barking. It's their usual lunch time. Seung-Gil could have timed his call a little better. But would it kill his mom to just wipe her hands and take the phone for a minute?

He already knows the answer to that, of course. If he'd medaled, she wouldn't even hesitate. His mother's pride is a complicated thing. No one believes in Seung-Gil as much as she does. But in her eyes, he's embarrassed her in front of her friends, if not the whole country. He'll be paying for that podium miss for a while.

 _I know I fucked up,_ he thinks. _I know I let you guys down. Mom especially. It's not that I don't appreciate everything you've done and sacrificed for me—_

But that talk can wait. Until he's there in person. For now, while he's still here, in Pyeongchang, he's done apologizing. He's done making excuses for what can't be changed.

“ _Appa,_  they want me. I'm going to be in the gala.”

Another pause. Seung-Gil can hear his dad relating the news to his mom, but he can't make out her reaction. “That's great, Seung-Gil! Your first Olympic gala, right? Are they going to show you on TV?”

“They better! I'm the native son," Seung-Gil says, recalling what Christophe told him. "Korea  _wants_ to see me. Anyway, I don't think they would have picked me for the gala in the first place if they didn't intend to broadcast my skate.”

What his mom and her friends are going to think about it is another matter. This program he has planned isn't like anything he's done in competition. He can't just disappear inside a character and say afterwards that wasn't him. This _will_  be him. He'll be baring his soul with this skate, on the largest stage there is.

“Can you just make sure Mom watches?”

As his dad answers, Seung-Gil spots Christophe exiting the building. He raises a hand, and Christophe takes that as his cue to come over.

“Tell her Giacometti will be in it, too,” Seung-Gil adds for good measure. “I know she likes to watch him skate.” His mom would never admit to that, of course, but she only complains about the skaters whose careers she cares enough about to follow, and she finds a lot about Christophe worthy of complaint.

“Did I hear my name?” Christophe says after Seung-Gil hangs up. “Are you telling your family about you and me?”

Seung-Gil snorts. “You wish.” As if they would ever be ready to hear that. “Anyway, I thought there was no you and me.”

“Hm.” Christophe scratches the corner of his jaw. “Fair point. What are you doing now?”

Seung-Gil blows steam as he burrows down into his coat. Now that the pressure of that phone call is off, he's full of restless energy and not sure what to do with it. “Anything but practice. I think we've had enough of that to earn an evening off.”

“Johann's team has their final heat tonight,” Christophe says. “I was going to go up and cheer him on. Maybe grab a drink at the Swiss house after. Want to join me?”

 _You're not going to let me go until I say yes, are you?_ Seung-Gil thinks to the smile on Christophe's lips, just sitting their patiently, prettily, waiting for the inevitable capitulation. “Why not. I do owe Johann for giving up his room to us on your birthday.”

“Yeah, he's never going to let me forget it. But I'm sure it will mean a lot to him and the rest of the guys if you're there to see them win.”

* * *

Johann's team doesn't medal. Though they do post the fastest time of all final runs. It just isn't enough to make up for their slow first. The night ends in a statistically unlikely tie for gold, which leaves everyone, bobsledder and spectator alike, feeling like a winner to be a part of Olympic history.

The clanging of cowbells still echoes in Seung-Gil's mind later as he sets up a celebratory round of domino shots for the Swiss team. He's limiting himself tonight. Even if he does have a full day to recover in between now and the day of the gala, he'd rather not have to recover from anything at all. He wants to be in top form for rehearsal tomorrow.

“You're going to watch this time—right, Johann?” Christophe wheedles him, earning Johann a round of ribbing from his teammates. “After I came all this way tonight just to see you guys come in—what place was it again? Fourth?”

“For your information,” Romain tells him, “if you tally up all the fourth-place finishes at these Games, Switzerland has the most. So, bravo us.”

This assertion soon collapses under scrutiny, however.

In lieu of an answer to Christophe's question, Johann turns to Seung-Gil. “You're going to skate on Saturday, too?”

“Yep.”

“Huh. Maybe I'll have to come watch in person.”

“They're the second-most expensive tickets in the Games,” Christophe tries to tell him.

But Johann tunes him out. “Should I bring something to throw onto the ice? That's what fans usually do, right?”

“That's not really appropriate for the gala—”

“Hey,” Rudy says at something on television, “isn't that that skater from Canada? What's his name—the JJ Style guy?”

“You mean _JJ_?” Christophe says as he turns in his seat.

Sure enough, there JJ is on the big screen, at the gold-medal women's hockey game in his Team Canada jersey, beer in hand, shooting up from his seat to give the officials a piece of his mind for whatever call they have just made.

Seung-Gil wishes they could hear what JJ's saying—though they have no trouble reading the incredulous _COME ON_ on his lips. The commentators, while not disagreeing with JJ, get a good chuckle out of the whole thing and decide to show it again in slow-motion replay.

JJ's not alone either. Isabella—though choosing to remain seated—has cupped her hands around her mouth and is booing right along with him, while Otabek, on his other side, glares even harder than usual.

Phichit just leans back in his seat so he can get more of the action into frame, ecstatic to be a witness to apocryphal Olympic history. Only Leo, the token American of the group, is trying to make himself look smaller in his seat, pulling his beanie down over his eyes in shame.

“ _Ha!_ ” Markus laughs, slapping his palm on the table, “This JJ friend of yours is okay by me, Christophe! I'd like to meet him sometime so I can buy him a beer.”

“Careful,” Christophe leans over to warn him, “that's how it starts. Are you familiar with a little earworm called 'Theme of King JJ'?”

“What, is this some kind of cult?” Rudy asks.

To which Johann laughs, pointing his thumb at his teammate. “Where can he sign up?”

He drapes his arm over the back of Seung-Gil's chair as he leans back, and Seung-Gil no longer has to wonder if he should read into it. It just feels good to be hanging out, laughing with fellow Olympians—dare he call them friends at this point?—and misunderstanding half their jokes. He wasn't expecting to, but Seung-Gil knows he's going to miss this when it's all over.


	6. 24 February

Christophe is already there waiting at the Ice Center when Seung-Gil shows up, a garment bag draped over his arm. “I have something for you,” he says, tilting his head toward the men's changing room door. “Shall we?”

Taking his costume out of the bag, the first thing Seung-Gil notices is the new fourragere of fake pearls dangling from the left shoulder. When he shakes the top out and turns it around, he isn't surprised.

Christophe's stylist hasn't done much to change the costume, but he's added the word “Revenge” in a heraldic font across the lower back. It doesn't replicate George Michael's iconic jacket from the “Faith” video faithfully, but it's enough to be a recognizable homage, and that's the whole point.

“It's perfect,” Seung-Gil says as he takes it all in. Just the motto and the theme he needs for this skate, even if the only person he'll be seeking revenge on is himself. “Am I going to have to burn it after tonight?”

“That's up to you,” Christophe says. “But if you do, call me first and I'll bring marshmallows.”

Seung-Gil has no intention of destroying the costume, though. He might only wear it once, before putting it and tonight's program away for the rest of his career, but he appreciates the sentiment too much. “Please thank your stylist for me.”

“Already done.”

“And thank you.” Christophe doesn't have to say it; Seung-Gil knows he's the one who thought of the changes. He wants to tell Christophe how much this means to him, how touched he is by the gesture, but either his English or his courage or both fail him, leaving Seung-Gil unable to get past the initial “I . . .”

“Later,” Christophe says, sparing him the trouble. “Tell me later.”

And he leaves Seung-Gil to finish changing.

First to perform after the opening number are the pair from South Korea. They finished even lower in their discipline's standings than Seung-Gil, but the home crowd doesn't care. They skate a bittersweet and graceful routine to [“Arirang”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b8zxi_yCOJ8) that does nothing but yank hard on the audience's heartstrings. It makes Seung-Gil more sure in his choice than he ever was.

This song isn't for him. The skate he did to it in the Grand Prix galas—it wasn't for him either, it was for his country, his sponsors, his mom, his coach. Just like every other skate he did this year. Seung-Gil could never relate to the love story behind the song or bring to it the emotion it deserves. But he's happy that someone else can.

Christophe's skate is a hard u-turn from that, onto a bumpy unpaved track with no seatbelts.

“ _Shine on, diamond,”_ the dreamy vocals beckon with curled finger as the spotlights find Christophe, _“Don't make me wait another day.”_ He glows like an angel in his white button-down shirt and acid-wash jeans, the former flowing open around him to let the tight lines of his torso peek through with every twist and turn. _“'Cause passion is passion/ You know it just as well as me.”_

Everyone calls the gala a party—that's what it is for the spectators, anyway—but Christophe skates like it truly is one. Like he's right up against the speakers, gyrating to the music and reaching out to anyone who's brave enough to join him inside it. Like it's the last night of their lives, the last hour of this spell, and he's the Cinderella at that ball, dancing on glass until the very last second before it breaks.

“ _Oh[my my my!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k5TqNsr6YuQ)”_ the chorus kicks in with an infectiously glitchy beat, right as Christophe lands his triple axel, “ _I die every night with you._

“ _Oh my my my!”_  It's like a breath of relief each time it echoes across the rink, _“Living for your every move.”_

And the audience lives for Christophe's. He's alone with each one of them in the darkened rink. He's got each one of them by the hand, and they're hurrying to keep up— _Go slow, no, no, go fast—_ wherever he leads them.

That's how he makes Seung-Gil feel as he watches. Like they're running through this gala together and no one else can touch them. _“You like it just as much as me”_ the saucy roll of Christophe's hips broadcasts to him. Like a wink and a nod. Like a slow blink. Christophe's fans can scream his name all they like, but there's only one person here he's going home with. It's almost enough to make Seung-Gil wish he didn't have to skate after this.

The screaming continues long after Christophe is finished. Seung-Gil is there ready with his towel when Christophe slides up to the gate, skin glistening with sweat his mesh tank doesn't show. Seung-Gil wants to tell him how that performance touched him, confess under the cover of darkness how much he can't wait for this gala to be over and done, but Phichit beats him to the punch.

“ _Chris!_ ” he yells as he leans over the railing, cell phone waving in one hand, “what is that _song?_ I need it in my life!”

Sara takes her turn in the meantime, having earned her spot in the gala with a third-place finish. She and Michele revisit the ice dance days of their teens with a sweet, sentimental number that couldn't be further in tone from the shameless sensuality of Christophe's. It may be Sara's victory lap, but the pride Michele clearly has for her nearly steals the show, lifting them both up as they twirl through the dance.

Seung-Gil uses this chance to shake out the last of the jitters before he skates. He checks the roll of his sleeves, and pushes his driving gloves tighter down between his fingers, over and over, the way he tends to when there's nothing else he can do but wait.

“Are you ready for this?” Christophe says by his ear, sliding up on Seung-Gil from behind.

The promise in his words makes Seung-Gil's heart beat a little harder in anticipation. “I'm just glad I didn't have to come after you.” He feels a little sorry for the Crispinos, who did.

Seung-Gil makes room for him beside the boards, and Christophe gives him a hard look up and down. For a moment, Seung-Gil thinks he's going to follow up with some double-entendre about their plans for later. Seung-Gil did set him up for one.

Instead, he reaches for the zipper on Seung-Gil's shirt and drags it down a little farther. 

“Now you're ready,” Christophe says.

It feels to Seung-Gil like the whole Ice Center holds its breath when his name is announced.

For a moment, out there in the center of the rink, self-doubt creeps comfortably back in. What if they're all just waiting for him to fall again?

But the song declares “ _I won't let you down/ I will not give you up”_ right from the start, and it reminds Seung-Gil of everything he needs to say with his skating tonight.

It's a promise to everyone out there watching him, supporting him, the only way that Seung-Gil knows how to give it: _“I won't let you down/ So please don't give me up/ 'Cause I would really, really love to stick around, oh yeah._ ”

He's going to keep fighting. He's learned his lesson from the free, and now he's ready to put it behind him and build himself back up into something to be proud of.

“ _Heaven knows we sure had some fun, boy/ What a kick, just a buddy and me._ ”

Seung-Gil had a choice when he trimmed this song down to fit the gala's time constraints. He decided to cut straight to the second verse, because he knew Christophe would hear it and understand. “ _We had every big shot good-time band on the run, boy,”_ bailing on one party without a word, bombing out of the next—watching their dreams fall around them, whether their confidence failed them or they gave their personal best. In this weird late-winter's night dream that is these Games, “ _We were livin' in a fantasy.”_

Forget this song, Seung-Gil wouldn't be skating tonight, period, if not for Christophe. That's the simple truth. He would be home, watching the gala on his laptop with his dog asleep beside him. Probably feeling sorry for himself.

So even though no one else watching might hear the dedication, there is one person who will, and that's all that matters.

For everyone else, “ _I think there's something you should know/ I think it's time I told you so/ There's something deep inside of me/ There's someone else I've got to be.”_

Starting right now is a new quadrennial, and if Seung-Gil is going to make it to Beijing, he's going to do it by skating in a way that makes _him_  happy. “ _All we have to do now,_ ” George Michael sings, _“Is take these lies and make them true somehow/ All we have to see/ Is that I don't belong to you/ And you don't belong to me.”_

Seung-Gil can't give them his whole self. He's not Christophe; he doesn't work that way. Seung-Gil tried that already, pouring out everything he had just to please his mom, his coach, his skating union—everyone but the one person he should have been trying to please—and the pressure nearly crushed him.

And yet.

If he really wanted to be free, he'd walk away from all of it tomorrow.

“Freedom!” isn't really about independence, any more than it's about revenge. Seung-Gil didn't really understand that until this last week and a half. It's a desperate plea to be loved as he honestly is, failures and all. But it's also a covenant, and an admission that he can't do any of this alone. He's got to give for what he takes.

As the song rounds its bridge and heads into the final “ _All we have to do,_ ” Seung-Gil hears the audience clapping to the beat. Normally it bothers him, but not tonight. Tonight it fuels him.

With no score to worry about, he's been landing simple jumps on autopilot this whole skate. But as the song nears its climax, its final refrains of “ _Freedom_ ,” it just feels right and he takes the chance. Launches himself into that quad loop that's been haunting him, and sticks it beautifully.

Seung-Gil can't see that people are leaping up from their seats. He can't hear Phichit or the entire Nishigori family screaming his name at the top of their lungs. He has no idea what Christophe is feeling, watching all of this.

All Seung-Gil knows is he feels redeemed. He's left something on this ice tonight that he can be proud of, something that's _him,_ and that's all he wanted to do.

* * *

Seung-Gil's room is already half-empty when he and Christophe arrive. His roommate left late yesterday after his short-track victory, so there's no reason for either of them to hurry.

“My room has the same view,” Christophe says. He crosses to the far bed while Seung-Gil drops his bags by the door, and falls down sideways on top of the comforter without removing his jacket. “I didn't have to share mine, though.”

Christophe spies the plush Soohorang doll sitting on Seung-Gil's nightstand and picks it up for a closer look. Seung-Gil's been thinking of giving it to his dog as a chew toy when he gets home. Watching the plush tiger and his smug little face get maimed bit by bit is the closest thing he can think of to destroying his free skate performance in effigy.

Christophe smirks over the tiger's head as the thought occurs to him: “Hey. We should do it on your roomie's bed. That way if we damage anything, he has to pay for it.”

He beams the Soohorang at Seung-Gil.

Who bats it away instead of catching it. “Do you think his silver medal would cover the bill?” Seung-Gil says, half-convinced already that this is a solid plan.

“Are you asking me to speak from personal experience?”

“I wasn't, but now I'm going to be thinking about that until I hear the whole story.”

Christophe tracks him with his eyes as Seung-Gil comes over and sits down across from him on his own bed, and Seung-Gil can feel the electricity in his stare. The gala left them no time to slow down, between all the performances and the banquet after. Seung-Gil didn't even check to see what time it was when they said their good-byes and left. He's not entirely sure it's still the twenty-fourth.

Now all of that energy he's collected throughout the evening just sits there, vibrating inside him, waiting for him to spend it. Seung-Gil takes a deep breath, hands tightening on the edge of the mattress. Christophe's jacket is so red under the lamplight it feels like it's burning his eyes.

“We don't have to do this tonight,” Christophe says to his silence. “Better not to force things, if you're feeling nervous—”

“I'm not nervous.”

Seung-Gil was nervous about skating today. This isn't the same.

If they don't do this tonight, when else are we going to do it? Worlds might be too late. Seung-Gil's not ready for this to be over before it's really started. “It's taking everything I have not to tear your clothes off you right now.”

“So why don't you?” Christophe says.

Then thinks better of it, and shoots to his feet, pulling off his jacket and tossing it on the bed behind him.

He's just an arm's reach away, so Seung-Gil tugs him closer, working on Christophe's lower half while Christophe strips off his tie, his shirt. The excitement of starting someone new coils tighter behind Seung-Gil's navel the barer Christophe gets. Seung-Gil's been thinking about this all night, all week, only trying _not_  to think about it when he was showering right next to Christophe.

Now that the moment's here, and they have nowhere else they need to be, nothing left to hide and no one to hide it from, it happens so naturally. Christophe rubs impatient circles into Seung-Gil's shoulder with his thumb, a gentle _Yes, please, anytime you like_ when everything rising in him really wants to say _Do it. Do it now. Don't keep me waiting any longer._

So Seung-Gil doesn't. He slides his mouth over Christophe's cock, just like he's wanted to since that first shower together. The quiver of Christophe's buttocks and thighs beneath Seung-Gil's hands is more flattering than any dirty thing Christophe could whisper in his ear.

But Christophe isn't ready for this to peak so soon. Not long and he pulls away, combing his fingers through Seung-Gil's hair as he sits down on the edge of the bed to steal a kiss. Searching for a taste of himself on Seung-Gil's tongue, no doubt. Christophe is just vain enough to get off on that.

He helps Seung-Gil undress while he's at it. Until Seung-Gil pushes him down and hurries to squirm the rest of the way out of his pants. Seung-Gil climbs on top of Christophe, straddling his thighs, and takes both their dicks in his hand, stroking them together until he swears he can feel both their heartbeats in his grip.

Christophe smooths his hands up Seung-Gil's thighs, drags his fingernails back down. Hisses through his teeth in time with the roll of Seung-Gil's hips. He wraps his fingers around Seung-Gil's, a tacit request to take over for a turn, and Seung-Gil is only too happy to let him. To just close his eyes for a minute and trust himself to Christophe's steady hand.

With his head start, Christophe finishes first, gasping and blushing like he's been caught beating off in church, and Seung-Gil would swear he's seen Christophe pull that same face once or twice on the ice. “Keep going,” he urges Seung-Gil, not that he needs to. Christophe's voice sounds raw, worn out. “Show me how you touch yourself when you think of me.”

And while Seung-Gil does, Christophe reaches between them to rub Seung-Gil behind his balls, pressing deeper when Seung-Gil whimpers “ _huh_  fuck—yeah—right there,” he's found the spot he's searching for.

Seung-Gil leans back, bracing himself on Christophe's thigh with his free hand as he grinds down on Christophe's knuckles, tugs up on his own cock. He no longer cares if anyone can hear him through the walls. The feeling is so intense, so good, almost as good as having Christophe inside him, all Seung-Gil wants is to hold on to it and ride it for as long as he can.

Only he can't. He comes spilling over his hand and both of them, shaking so hard it's all he can do to reach over for the box of tissues and hand it off to Christophe before he collapses against the pillows.

And in the cool-down it finally catches up with Seung-Gil.

Closing ceremonies are tomorrow. Another day and this will be all over.

Christophe uses Seung-Gil's stomach for a pillow while Seung-Gil twists the curl back into his hair. He stares at the lights of the city out the window, and Seung-Gil wonders if they're thinking the same thing. Even when they could count the days left on one hand, the end still felt so far away. Now that it's here, Seung-Gil finds himself wishing they had more time.

“How did we never consider this before?” Seung-Gil says. But that's not what's really nagging at him. “Why did it take us so long to try?”

Christophe smiles against his skin.

He turns and hooks an arm around Seung-Gil's thigh to pull himself up with, like the bed is the surface of the sea and Seung-Gil his life-preserver. “Maybe we thought we were just too different,” Christophe says, and presses a kiss to what remains of the bruise Seung-Gil got from his free skate, as if to dull the pain. "We couldn't possibly have anything in common."

His beard scratches, but there's no pain left in the bruise. Seung-Gil moans deep in his throat, wishing there was still a little. Something in him needs it. Like a memento. “Like cats and dogs?”

“Mmm. You know, I never really liked that phrase. It reinforces stereotypes. There are plenty of cats and dogs who get along just fine. Even love each other for the rest of their lives.”

That's not the kind of companion Seung-Gil's looking for, however. He already has that kind of love waiting for him at home. Though he will concede that Christophe can satisfy him in ways man's best friend can't.

“You never did tell me why you think I'm like a cat.”

Christophe pretends not to have heard.

“Come on. I explained my dog compliment. It's only fair.”

“You really want to know?” Lips still dragging on Seung-Gil's thigh, Christophe turns his gaze to meet Seung-Gil's, promising with his stare any number of things he could say or do that Seung-Gil would find far more satisfying.

But it's been driving Seung-Gil crazy ever since the fourteenth. Yes, he has to know.

“Fine,” Christophe sighs. “It's the way you glare when you get frustrated or fixated on something. My cat does the same thing.”

“Wait.” Seung-Gil pushes himself up on his elbows. “That's it? That's the whole reason?”

There has to be more to it than that. Seung-Gil poured out a piece of his own soul when he told Christophe how he was like a dog. He's been building up his defense in preparation for Christophe's explanation ever since, and it's been for nothing? Seung-Gil's not sure whether he's more disappointed or convinced that Christophe is still, after all these days together, messing with him.

“You're doing it right now,” Christophe says as though that should be sufficient to rest his case. His next kiss is to the juncture of Seung-Gil's hip and thigh.

And Seung-Gil can't stay frustrated, even if he wanted to. His dick stirs again. It's not a suggestion—just an observation: _You make me feel so good_ —but Christophe takes it for a suggestion anyway, slipping his lips along the length in unhurried fashion. Seung-Gil buries his fingers deeper in Christophe's hair, no pressure, just keep going like that, take your time.

Christophe waits until he's teased Seung-Gil nice and hard to take him in his mouth. He doesn't have to wait long; their first round only left Seung-Gil primed for more.

And Seung-Gil stretches out as all the tension inside starts to uncoil, pillowing his head in his arms so he can watch Christophe work him. Those dark lashes he was dreaming about catch unexpected gold in the lamplight—or maybe it's closer to bronze—and Seung-Gil wonders what he did to deserve this. What made Christophe reach out to him for the first time when Seung-Gil was at his lowest point, and why for once he didn't say no.

Maybe it's best not to question it.

“I'm glad you made me stay.”

Christophe hums against his skin in lieu of a laugh. “Think of everything you would have missed if you'd left.”

“I am.” Come tomorrow, it'll all be memories. But they'll be his. Theirs.

“Will you come find me tomorrow? At the closing ceremonies? We could have some more fun after. Set off some fireworks of our own.” And Seung-Gil feels Christophe's hand smooth further up the back of his thigh, “If you're up for it,” his fingertips pressing amicably between Seung-Gil's cheeks.

It's all Seung-Gil can do not to squirm into them. God, how he wishes he could say yes.

But. “I won't be here. I'm heading home tomorrow morning. Before the trains get too crowded.”

It actually hurts to say the words. It shouldn't. Seung-Gil should be impatient to see his dog, his parents, to eat a home-cooked meal and sleep in his own bed.

So why does it feel like something's being ripped out of him? Something someone decided he can't take back home with him, he has to leave it here? This isn't fair. It's not how this was supposed to end.

Christophe does stop then. So he can look Seung-Gil in the eyes when he asks, “Do you want me to come with you to the station?”

“You don't have to do that for me.”

“Seung-Gil,” Christophe tries again, and Seung-Gil recognizes that tone by now. That not-quite-condescending stare that implores him to cut the bullshit. “ _Can_  I come with you tomorrow?”

“Yes.” How easily Christophe pulls that word from Seung-Gil, like no one else can. “I'd like that.”

Somewhere in that answer must be the magic word, because Christophe smiles, slowly, and pushes himself to hands and knees so he can kiss Seung-Gil properly, deep and open-mouthed. Seung-Gil hooks his legs around Christophe's, holding them flush together, and Christophe only pulls back to snake a hand down between their bodies, make sure everything is comfortably aligned.

But he doesn't move, save for the tiniest, probably unintentional roll of his hips. Just lets everything focus down to the hard heat of them against each other. “Can I come with you again tonight? I'm thinking together this time.”

Seung-Gil can't help but laugh. “We'll just have to see how things go, won't we? But I appreciate your optimism, and I know you'll give it your best effort.”

“I always do.”

Christophe grinds down in earnest when they kiss again, full of intention, knees digging into the mattress, his thighs spreading Seung-Gil's even wider apart. And Seung-Gil almost hopes that he doesn't get any sleep tonight. He can always sleep on the train.

* * *

Pre-closing ceremonies or not, the station is packed with people getting out of town. Perhaps the only consolation is knowing the airport would have been ten times worse.

So even though he didn't need another set of hands, Seung-Gil is happy to have them. And another pair of eyes keeping track of all his bags. They talk of random things to kill the remainder of their time together—the gala, the Swiss bobsled team, JJ's viral outburst at the women's hockey final—anything but the whatever-this-is between the two of them.

Until Seung-Gil's train pulls in, and then it's too late to say anything of much substance.

“Well, this is me. Thanks,” Seung-Gil says as he takes the rest of his bags from Christophe. But even with the amendment “For everything,” the words feel terribly trite and inadequate.

As trite and inadequate as Christophe's “My pleasure.” Though his smirk and saucy wink do add layers of nuance that are sure to occupy Seung-Gil's thoughts on the ride. “Be sure to text me when you get home. Let me know you made it.”

“Sure.”

Seung-Gil should just leave it there, but one thought won't leave him alone. “You could have asked anyone to dinner that night, after the free. Why did you insist on me?”

He half-expects Christophe to repeat the excuse he gave then. That he wanted an authentic meal, that he doesn't read a lick of Korean.

Instead, Christophe tells him, “Because I've been where you were, and I knew you needed a distraction.”

“You must have known I needed more than that.” Until Christophe reached out to him, and asked Seung-Gil what _he_  wanted for a change, Seung-Gil had almost forgotten what it felt like to sit and share his time with someone who only wanted to listen. Someone who wasn't asking him for anything in return. Someone who believed in him, even when Seung-Gil wasn't asking him to.

“Seung-Gil . . .” Christophe looks like he has half a dozen things to say to that, but thinks better of all of them.

“I know,” Seung-Gil fills in for him. “We both agreed this wasn't going to be serious—”

“No, that's not it.”

This time it's Seung-Gil who waits, and gives Christophe the space to sort it all out.

“I've known a lot of cats over the years,” Christophe says once he has, “and I can tell you not all of them land on their feet. Or pee in the box,” he adds with a wry grin. “Some of them never return your slow blinks, no matter how hard you try to get them to. But one thing they all have plenty of is patience.

“Good things are going to come your way, Seung-Gil. I promise you that.”

And with that, deciding he's said all that he can possibly say, Christophe flashes one last charming smile, shoves his hands down into his pockets and turns to go.

It just doesn't seem right to leave it there. Before that red jacket can disappear into the crowd, Seung-Gil digs the Soohorang doll out of his bag.

“Hey, Chris—wait!”

Christophe turns, and Seung-Gil tosses the little plush tiger to him. Having no inkling whatsoever that he's repeating history. Just knowing he's going to remember the bewildered look on Christophe's face when he catches it, for years to come.

“See you at Worlds!”


End file.
